


What Burning Bliss To Drown In An Ocean Of Fire

by leonidaslion



Series: Suite!verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:29:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Accidents will happen ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Art](http://charlie-d-blue.livejournal.com/9415.html) by charlie-d-blue  
> [More Art](http://charlie-d-blue.livejournal.com/13379.html) by charlie-d-blue  
> [Art + Fanmix](http://abendiboo.livejournal.com/13726.html") by abendiboo
> 
> [Vid](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZyyQMBKWG3I) by loverstar  
> [Trailer](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CWxN30zvGw8) by loverstar  
> [Vid 2](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJmC3R8PME4&feature=related) by loverstar
> 
> [Audiofic](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/category/seriessuiteverse) by juice817

Dean wakes reluctantly, ripped free from dreams of being trapped in Hell. The air in the room is soft and pure, but he has awakened this way too many times to be fooled into relief. There are reminders, even this close to sleep: the metal bracelets are heavy on his wrists, and his hair is falling in his eyes, longer than he’d ever let it get on his own.

He wishes that he could sink back into the refuge of his nightmares, but he knows even without looking that Sam is in the room, waiting for him. Sam is always there: he hasn’t left Dean’s side for more than a few minutes at a time since Dean’s failed escape attempt almost three months ago. Spends his time watching Dean with sharp eyes, like he’s worried about a suicide attempt, no matter how many children he’s threatened to kill. So Dean knows that Sam is there, just like he knows Sam can tell from the shift in his breathing that he’s awake.

Cracking his eyes open, Dean doesn’t immediately see his brother sitting by the bed, so he gives himself a few minutes to adjust. He stares at his pillow, tracing the creases there and feeling pathetically grateful that Sam still allows him this small space. He doesn’t know where Sam sleeps, or even _if_ he sleeps; he only knows that when he curls up at night it’s without the crushing pressure of Sam’s body against his. It’s one of the only times he can get any air.

Dean’s chest tightens without warning and his hand twitches against the silk sheets. He thinks of his dream, and the searing pain of having his flesh peeled from his bones, and wants to laugh. It’s pretty funny, after all: he’s living in the lap of luxury and all he can think about is Hell. Is how he wishes that Sam had just let him go when his year was up.

He’s probably the first person in the history of the world to long for damnation.

Then again, Sam’s a first too as far as Dean knows. The yellow-eyed demon had other children, but Sam is the only one who took those final steps and opened himself to corruption. He’s the only one who completed the ritual, mouth stained red with blood and eyes flaring irrevocably gold. Demon blood in a human body: two halves coming together to form a terrifying whole.

A woman once told Dean that looking at him was like staring into the sun. Her name was Anna Brooks, and she was plain, brown-haired and mousy: an art student at some podunk community college in the middle of Arkansas. She wanted him to model for her; asked with a flush on her cheeks and down turned eyes, the bit about the sun not feeling like a line in the obvious face of her awkwardness.

Dean did the modeling, kept his hands and his dick to himself, and left her with the fifty she tried to pay him with. He hadn’t ever told Sam or John about her—some things were too private—but that hadn’t stopped him from working her words into his stories. Couldn’t let a line like that go to waste, after all.

He remembers Anna here on the edge of waking because looking at Sam is a bit like looking at the sun these days: all that strength and grace, those wide smiles and huge, talented hands. Beautiful. But get too close and the power lurking beneath that beauty—all the cruelty and hunger that the yellow-eyed demon unleashed when Sam made his bargain—would char you to cinders. Sometimes, Dean feels burnt just being in the same room as his brother.

Dean watches the firelight flicker across the black satin pillowcase and thinks that Anna’s words weren’t such a compliment after all.

Wait: firelight?

Sitting up, Dean blinks sleep-fogged eyes at the picture window. The curtains are drawn back and Sam is framed by an eerie, sullen glow. He has his back to Dean, broad and forbidding beneath the white button down he’s wearing. He doesn’t turn at the rustle of the covers as they slide down to pool in Dean’s lap.

“What’s happening?” Dean asks.

Now Sam glances over. His eyes travel lazily over Dean’s bare chest, making him wish that he wore more to bed last night. It was hotter than usual in the suite, though, and it had been strip down to his boxers or do without a sheet. Lately he feels too defenseless to sleep without that soft fabric as a barrier against prying eyes.

Under his brother's appreciative gaze, Dean's hands itch to pull the sheet back up and cover himself, but he doesn’t know what kind of mood that obvious rejection would put Sam in. The glint of amusement in those amber eyes tells him that his brother knows how uncomfortable he is right now, but Sam doesn’t comment on it. He only says, “The city’s burning,” and looks back out the window.

“What?” Dean blurts. For the first time since he woke up chained to a table in this suite, he forgets to be afraid. Kicking his way free from the sheet, he tumbles off the bed and stumbles over to stand next to his brother.

The world is on fire, flames boiling and trees exploding from the heat and _Jesus_ he didn’t know that fire could get that tall. Didn’t know it could burn that white, blinding color not just at the core but _everywhere_ : thick sheets of it filling Central Park like drifting, wind-tossed snow. There’s a tornado of pure flame rising up in the distance; even from here, Dean has to crane his neck to see the top, towering at least forty stories high. Overhead, thick clouds of demon-black smoke choke the air. Dean can’t see the sky through the darkness. As he stares, a sudden pulse of flame slides up against the lower floors of the Ritz Carlton like waves on a beach.

“Jesus Christ,” he says faintly.

“It’s okay,” Sam says, resting one hand on the back of Dean’s neck. His thumb rubs tiny circles that are probably supposed to be calming. “We’re safe. I made sure that we’d be protected from any accidents.”

“ _Accidents_?” Dean repeats incredulously. “An accident is spilling coffee on your shirt. That’s … I don’t know what the fuck that is.”

Sam’s thumb stills and his other fingers dig into Dean’s skin. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were accusing me of something.”

Dean isn’t, not really. But he knows it’s not beyond the realm of possibility. And it’s not like Sam looks all that bothered by the blaze. He ignores the warning of his brother’s fingers and says, “Are you denying it?”

There’s a low, ruffling feel to the air that he’s come to associate with Sam losing control of his emotions and, for a moment, Dean thinks his brother is going to lift him and shake him like a rat. Maybe toss him against the wall and yell at him. Instead, Sam uses that hand on Dean’s neck to pull him closer.

Dean resists until it’s follow or fall and then takes the step. It puts him between his brother and the glass and Sam immediately releases his neck.

Before Dean can edge away again, Sam steps closer. He trails his hand down Dean’s chest to rest on his lower stomach. Dean tries to lean forward into the fire-warmed glass, but Sam presses more firmly on his abdomen, holding their bodies firmly together.

Caught between a firestorm and the sun, Dean feels feverish and faint.

Sam rests his chin on Dean’s shoulder. His pinky slides beneath the band of Dean’s boxers. “I didn’t start the fire,” he sing songs, and then giggles.

Two buildings down, something explodes and Dean jumps. Sam holds him tighter, his other arm coming across Dean’s chest.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Sam breathes in his ear.

 _No_ , Dean thinks, but he doesn’t quite dare to say it out loud. He shuts his eyes and can still feel the flames against his eyelids.

How many humans are hiding in the city, unaware of what’s coming? How many hunters, holed up close and waiting for a chance to strike at the heart of Hell? None, probably: Sam wouldn’t allow a threat to Dean’s safety to come that close. The only living creatures left in the city by now are demons and their human slaves, maybe a couple billion roaches living off the rotting carcasses stinking up dark stairwells.

The demons can take care of themselves, and the slaves would probably be better off as ash on the wind. Still, Dean’s bothered by the destruction: by the sheer wantonness of it.

“The whole city could burn,” he points out.

“Maybe.” Dean can feel Sam’s smirk against his shoulder. “Property value on this place would skyrocket.”

A joke. New York City is burning to the ground and Sam is making jokes. A tiny seed of anger unfurls in Dean’s stomach where his brother’s hand rests and he says, “You could do something.”

“Mmm. I’m planning on it. Thought maybe I’d order up some beer, couple pizzas. We’ll bring the couch over by the window and watch the show.” Sam nudges Dean’s jaw, tilting his head to the side, and sucks a slow kiss into his exposed neck.

Dean’s eyes flutter open involuntarily. He stares at their reflection in the glass: pale ghosts filled with fire and smoke. Sam’s hair curtains most of his brother’s face, but Dean can make out those hungry lips working on his skin. The pressure is just this side of painful, and he can feel the bruise forming. As if he hasn’t been branded as Sam’s enough already.

He has to swallow twice to get his voice working again, but he finally manages to rasp, “You’re just gonna watch it burn?”

Sam gives Dean’s neck a final, playful nip and then angles his head up to meet his eyes in their reflection. An inferno writhes in his pupils as he licks his lips. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Got something else in mind?” His voice rubs suggestively along Dean’s body. “Something better?”

Inching his hand lower on Dean’s stomach, Sam sends his pinky and ring fingers sliding through the wiry hair just above Dean’s dick. Dean is gripping his brother’s wrist, stilling him, before he realizes that he’s moved. Sam allows himself to be stopped and immediately starts nuzzling at the fresh bruise he left on Dean’s throat.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous by firelight. Could watch you all day. Just want to—just want to sit here and kiss you. You gonna let me, Dean?” He shifts even closer, breath ghosting over the corner of Dean’s lips, and his hand flexes in Dean’s boxers. When he speaks again, their mouths are close enough that Dean breathes in the whisper.

“You gonna kiss me back this time?”

“What part of the city being on fire do you not understand?”

Dean is impressed with the fact that his voice doesn’t shake: that he sounds cold and strong and slightly pissed off. Probably because he _is_ slightly pissed off, but still. It’s been a while since he’s been angry enough for it to register above the constant thrum of fear.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Sam asks, his voice tight with annoyance. He’s always annoyed when Dean manages to ignore his clumsy attempts at seduction.

“Well, you could try stopping it,” Dean suggests.

He isn’t sure that Sam is powerful enough to quench the fire, but it turns out that Sam is a little more confident in his own strength because instead of arguing the plausibility angle he goes with, “Where’s the fun in that?”

The second explosion of the morning comes from somewhere on the opposite side of the park. Dean’s eyes track away from Sam’s and focus on the burning world outside. The MET is over there, he realizes. If the fire weren’t in the way, he’d be able to see its white exterior.

If it’s still standing, that is.

Sam dragged him there once, a little under six months before he left: hell, the acceptance letter from Stanford was probably already burning a hole in the bottom of his bag. Dad had dropped them off in the city while he went to hunt an incubus in Hackensack: they’d been deemed a liability at their ages, and with their libidos raging out of control.

Dean remembered agreeing with their father in principal but being pissed off anyway, and Sam had to put up with his temper for the first few days. But Sam, being Sam, could always haul him out of whatever mood he’d managed to work himself into, and on the fourth day after Dad left Dean found himself agreeing to take his brother to the MET.

Aside from the occasional naked chick or dude, Dean had been bored out of his mind. Sam, predictably, loved every minute. He spent hours gushing over ugly canvases and pulling Dean from one exhibit to the next. Dean would have chalked the whole day up as a bust if not for the fact that, when they got back to the motel, Sam gave him one hell of a reward for putting up with his geeking.

With his brother hard and hungry behind him, it isn’t the sex that Dean focuses on but all of the stuff in that stone building. His appreciation for the ‘finer things in life’ hasn’t really developed much past John Carpenter movies and a good beer, but he’s not so stupid that he doesn’t know what that kind of heritage will be worth to the people who are left when this is all over _(and it_ will _end, it has to)_.

He wants to leave them with more than ash and the taste of blood and the knowledge that no one is going to come riding to their rescue after all: that God and Superman and the Good Samaritan are all on a permanent cigarette break.

And he wants it for Sammy.

“If you don’t do something, the MET’s gonna go up.”

“So?” Sam lays a gentle bite on the corner of Dean’s jaw.

“You liked it,” he says, ignoring the rush of nerves the same way he’s ignoring the scrape of teeth over his skin. Which is to say, not very well. “You—when we went there, you said it felt like a real date.”

Sam’s breath huffs out in a soft laugh and _(oh thank God)_ he shifts down from Dean’s neck to plant a kiss on his shoulder. “You called me a girl and asked if that meant you were gonna have to start buying me flowers to get me to put out.”

What Dean said was that he wasn’t gonna be buying Sam flowers, if that’s what he was after, but Sam’s version is close enough. Dean steels himself—what he’s about to do is kin to shaking a hornet’s nest like a canasta and then sticking his hand inside—and then asks, “You remember what happened when we got back to the motel?”

Sam goes still, and Dean feels the pulse of his brother’s hunger as a sudden swelling against his ass. He wants to pull forward and doesn’t, only half-held by Sam’s hand as it presses more firmly against his lower abdomen.

“I fucked you.”

“Four times.” It comes out as a moan because, despite everything, it still feels like Sammy behind him.

Sam’s breath hitches and his hips rock forward in an involuntary movement, knocking Dean’s half-hard cock against the window. Dean bites his lip and braces himself with one hand. Feels the warmth of the fire seeping into his palm.

Biting the lobe of Dean’s ear, Sam gives it a tug. He licks a slow path around the shell and then whispers, “It only counts as four if you pull out between rounds.”

His voice drips with promise and Dean can’t help but remember what that felt like: Sam’s cock softening and hardening inside of him in a cycle that left him breathless and stunned. Falling asleep with Sam still filling him, with Sam draped over him in a long, hot line and his own come a sticky, cooling mess beneath him on the bed. Dean had been sore as hell in the morning, stiff in all the wrong places and itching where his come had dried to a flaking crust on his cock and lower stomach, but it had been worth it.

“You walked funny for a week,” Sam recalls. “I thought for sure Dad would figure it out.”

Dean hadn’t. John only noticed Dean’s health when it interfered with a job, and by the time he needed backup again, Dean was already back to speed.

Sam slides his hand from Dean’s stomach to grasp one of his hips. His other hand trails down Dean’s chest and takes up a mirroring position. Hooking his thumbs over Dean’s boxers and laying his other fingers along Dean’s skin, he toys with the fabric.

Dean isn’t sure whether it’s meant as a threat or an enticement, but he’s blisteringly aware of how close he is to being naked. Sure, he hasn’t got anything that his brother hasn’t seen before, but things with Sam seem to get more complicated the less he’s wearing. Besides, he already feels naked enough, thanks.

“So, what prompted the little walk down memory lane?” Sam purrs.

All of Dean’s survival instincts are screaming at him to just drop it already, but he focuses on the fire outside and answers, “It might be fun to do again sometime. If you ever let me out of here.”

Sam’s hands give a little twitch Dean feels his boxers slip lower. When Sam speaks, there’s anger threading through the desire in his voice. “You know that’s not how it works, Dean.”

“I didn’t mean—I meant when—you know.” Dean can’t quite bring himself to say it, but he’s pretty sure his brother understands.

Sam laughs. Tightening his grasp, he digs his fingers into Dean’s hips hard enough that Dean suspects he’ll be wearing bruises in the shape of his brother’s hands later.

“You don’t really think that you’re being subtle here, do you?” Sam growls. “You want something, just come out and say it.”

“Fine. I want you to put out the fire.”

“Why?” Sam presses. “For a few paint-smeared canvases? You were bored stiff, Dean: you hated it there. So why the fuck are you putting your ass on the line for it now?”

“I didn’t hate—” Dean’s words cut off as Sam’s power slams into him, shoving him flush against the window.

“Don’t lie to me. I asked you a question and I want an answer. Why is this so important to you?”

Dean searches for another lie and can’t come up with one. He isn’t even sure why he’s bothering: Sam could reach inside of him and rip the truth from his mind. Will if Dean doesn’t give him what he wants quickly enough.

“I—I want it for—for after.”

The temperature in the room dips. There’s an inferno blazing in front of Dean’s eyes, but there are crystalline ice patterns forming on the glass where his breath fogs out. Oh fuck, maybe he should have lied.

“After _what_ , Dean? After I’m ‘back to normal’? After you save the day and drive the demons back to Hell?”

The world blurs and moisture slips down his cheeks. His tears freeze as they hit the window. He can’t speak through his panic: doesn’t have an answer that won’t infuriate Sam further.

Sam’s power pulls back suddenly and he spins Dean around by the shoulder. Leaning on the window with one hand on either side of Dean’s head, he hisses, “That’s never going to happen. You need to give up the daydream and accept it.” He shoves one leg between Dean’s thighs and presses in, dragging a whimper from Dean’s throat. “You need to accept _us_.”

“Sam—Sammy—”

“How many people do I have to rip apart in front of you for you to understand? You want me to take you with me to the front lines, Dean? You want to watch me burn through the last, pathetic resistance?” His voice drops. “I can liquefy people, did you know that? All I have to do is look at them and they … they loose cohesion. Do you have any idea what that smells like? What it sounds like when they try to scream?”

Sam’s crying, and Dean doesn’t think he knows it. In the midst of his fear and his disgust at what Sam is telling him, he feels a flicker of hope unfurl in his chest. If Sam is crying—if he’s as horrified by this as Dean—then maybe there’s still something of Sammy left beneath the monster.

It’s that hope that drives Dean to bring his hands up to cradle Sam’s face. That swipes his thumbs across his brother’s cheekbones, obscuring the lines of tears.

Sam’s power slams into him, threading through the cuffs and the lines on his back and stretching him out against the glass. Dean’s arms are extended to either side, the cuffs pulsing warm against his wrists. Sam is standing just out of reach with his head bowed and his body shaking like a blade of grass in a windstorm.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers. He strains forward and the power coursing through him sharpens. It lodges in his throat and stops his voice—stops his air.

Sam stills himself and raises his head slowly, eyes reflecting back the fire on the other side of the window. “Don’t.” His voice is laced with the crackle of flames. “Don’t you fucking pity me.”

If Sam’s power weren’t wedged down his throat, Dean would try to explain that it isn’t pity he’s feeling, but compassion. It wouldn’t do any good, of course—he doesn’t think that Sam is capable of making that distinction anymore—but he would try. As it is, all he can do is continue to try to fight Sam’s hold in an attempt to reach out to the brother he thinks he saw.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “Maybe I _should_ let it burn. Maybe that would get it through that thick skull of yours that this is the way things are now. The demons won. We lost. End. Of. Fucking. Story.”

He punctuates his final words with sharp bursts of power. It floods though Dean’s insides, tasting of Sam and leaving him a wash of conflicting emotions and needs.

Desire.

The power clogging his airways dissipates and Dean has almost two whole seconds to suck in a fresh breath before Sam’s mouth is there, hungry and taking. Lapping at his lips, biting them, demanding entrance.

Dean tilts his head back and opens his mouth, letting his brother in. He ignores the way his stomach turns, the way his heart flutters with panic. As much as it feels like it, this isn’t submission. It’s a desperate attempt to find out if what Sam said to him in the bathroom three months ago is true.

Sam kisses Dean for so long that he’s breathless again. When he finally pulls back, Dean is dazed. Sam’s lips are as swollen as Dean’s feel, and it takes effort to look past that into his eyes. He searches that golden gaze for a hint of calm: for some sign that his indiscretion has soothed the darkness inside of his brother.

But Sam’s face is as impenetrable as a mirror as he grips Dean’s hair and hauls his head back, baring his throat.

“Tell you what,” Sam says. “I’ll give you one location for every question you answer honestly. You ready?”

Dean isn’t going to like this, he can tell. But it isn’t like he has a choice. Letting his eyes fall shut, he nods. Sam’s hand immediately tightens in his hair.

“You’re going to look at me when you answer,” he insists. Dean forces his eyes open again and Sam rewards him by nuzzling his cheek. “That’s better. Okay, we’ll start off with something easy. Why did you bring up that day at the MET?”

In a way, Sam is right: it’s a simple question and Dean knows the answer, could offer it in a second. But then again, he also knows that answering is going to piss his brother off, and he would really like to get out of this with his skin intact.

If this is what Sam considers an easy question, Dean really doesn’t want to know what the hard ones are going to look like.

“Clock’s ticking, baby,” Sam prods.

Dean tightens his jaw and then decides that if he’s going to be upsetting Sam anyway, he might as well go the whole hog. “I thought it might make you more willing to get off your ass and do something.”

“Which part?” Sam asks, relentless. “The part where you spent the whole day bitching about being bored or the part where I fucked you?”

“The fucking,” Dean grounds out.

“You thought I’d save it in hopes of a repeat performance.” Sam’s voice is dangerously soft.

Despite the warning of his brother’s tone, and despite his own climbing fear, Dean’s frustration with the whole goddamned situation ratchets up a notch into something like anger. He presses his lips together.

Sam just smiles at him and purrs, “Tick tock, Dean.”

“That wasn’t a question, _Sam_ ,” Dean shoots back.

“Fine. Is that what you were hoping for?”

When Dean still doesn’t answer—too angry now and reveling in the feeling—Sam uses his grip on Dean’s hair to turn his head to the side until Dean can see fire. He’s suddenly aware that Sam is painted in a shifting, reddened glow: the whole room seems to have been dipped in it in.

“Answer me or I let it burn.”

Through the phantom taste of ash in his mouth, Dean manages to bite out a “Yes.”

Sam’s amber eyes darken as he slowly draws Dean’s head back to the point where his muscles are screaming for release and it hurts to swallow.

“I’m disappointed, man,” he murmurs. “We’ve been over this I don’t know how many times.”

It doesn’t require an answer, but Dean licks his lips and offers, “I know, I’m sorry,” anyway. His defiance is melting underneath his brother’s gaze. He was angry all the time at first, back in the early days After, but it’s getting harder and harder to maintain that kind of emotion.

“Do you _want_ me to just take you? Is that it?” Sam’s thigh, intrusive and firm, shoves back in between Dean’s legs. He leans closer, his breath hot in Dean’s ear, and whispers, “You want me to fuck you? Right here? Because I could, Dean. I could turn you around and spread you open and take you while you watch the city burn. You think that’d get it through your thick skull that things have changed?”

“Don’t.”

The word comes too freely to Dean’s mouth these days; comes unbidden like an old friend whenever Sam pushes too hard. He can feel his brother’s erection against his hip and knows that Sam must feel his in turn. For a moment, Dean has a full bodied flash of their bodies moving together, sweat slick between them and that delicious, staticy burn in his ass that comes whenever Sam gives it to him hard. Sam rocks against him and Dean can’t quite manage to swallow his moan.

“See, your mouth keeps saying no, but your body …”

Sam’s hand is inside of Dean’s boxers before he knows what’s happening, wrapping around his dick and making his pulse soar. Sam’s thumb swipes across the head, smearing precum and making it impossible for Dean to keep pretending that he isn’t turned on by Sam’s body being so close.

“Doesn’t mean anything,” Dean insists. He does his best to focus on the discomfort in his neck muscles, but it’s near impossible to ignore the way that Sam is idly playing with him. His throat feels parched as he says, “Fuck, Sam, you know me; I get hard if the wind’s blowing the right way.”

Sam’s hand tightens on Dean’s cock, drawing a hiss from him. “No lying, Dean. You don’t—” He swallows and the fingers threading Dean’s hair tense in warning. “You do _not_ want to piss me off right now.”

“Seem kinda pissed already,” Dean pants.

Sam gives one of his unbelieving huffs and then says, “Don’t make it worse.”

Dean must be feeling particularly masochistic today because he immediately comes back with: “You think it could get worse?”

He waits for the pain he’s sure will follow that: just because Sam hasn’t hurt him yet doesn’t mean he won’t if Dean pushes him to it. But Sam holds himself completely still for an endless minute and then carefully unwinds his hand from Dean’s hair. Lowering his head is even more painful than holding it at that awkward angle was and Dean winces. Sam’s hand finds the back of his neck and rubs, working out the tension.

“I’m beginning to wonder if you need me to do it,” Sam says after a moment. “If you need me to just take you once so that you understand things are different now, that you’re mine and I’m not letting you go. I’m wondering if you need a reminder of how good I can make it. Or maybe you just need an out. Maybe you need me to _take_ so that you won’t feel responsible for letting me fuck you.”

Sam releases Dean’s dick and shoves his hand lower. Dean’s stance automatically widens for his brother’s touch, despite the sudden terror washing through him. He holds himself still as Sam’s fingers stroke over his entrance: a place they haven’t been since Before, despite all the heavy petting.

“Please—” Dean whispers, and then his voice cuts off as his brother’s power curls around his throat.

“Please do it? That what you want, baby?”

Now Dean can hear the tremors in Sam’s voice. He wonders if he’s done it this time: if he’s finally pushed Sam past the threshold of control.

“It’d be so much easier for you if I did, wouldn’t it?” Sam continues. “You could blame this on the big bad demon then, couldn’t you? Tell everyone I made you do it, that I forced you, that I’m a monster. Huh? Is that what you want? Answer me, damn it!”

Sam is shouting by the end, but his fingers are still gentle in their caresses. The contrast is fucking with Dean’s head, and he doesn’t know which to believe: the tenderness or that wild, bruising anger. Sam seems to realize that he’s holding Dean’s voice for ransom, or maybe he’s just done talking, because the pressure around Dean's throat eases.

“Come on, Dean,” Sam breathes. “I asked you a question.” Before Dean can do more than wet his lips, he adds sharply, “The truth, or I let it burn. And trust me, I’ll know if you’re lying.”

Dean shuts his eyes against the painful lump swelling his throat. He doesn’t want to answer that question. Because he and Sam both know what the answer is, but if they don’t acknowledge it—if Dean doesn’t have to _say_ it—then they can pretend it isn’t true.

“Is that what you want?” The question is almost compassionate.

Dean realizes that he’s crying. He’s ashamed by it. Ashamed by the way that his body is reacting to Sam’s stroking despite the frantic signals his brain is sending.

“Simple question, baby. Yes or no?”

The window is fire-warm at Dean’s back, and the sun is before him. Sam’s heat soaks into his muscles and he wants, oh God, so much. Sam’s fingers are at his entrance, not pushing, just playing, and Sam Sam Sammy is everywhere and nowhere at the same time and Dean just … he can’t take this anymore. He _can’t_.

He can feel the slide his mind makes toward madness. Welcomes it like a lover.

Then Sam’s power thunders through him, setting his nerves alight and dragging him back to whatever sanity still exists in this fractured world.

“None of that, Dean,” Sam warns. Both of his hands are cradling Dean’s face, and Dean isn’t hard anymore. He wonders how much time passed while he was busy freaking out. How much of the city has burned.

 _Pull yourself together, son. I need you to be strong for me._

 _Dad?_ Dean thinks, but Dad is dead. Dad isn’t just dead but as gone as a spirit can get. Lucky for him: if he hadn’t died Before, then Sam surely would have torn him apart Now. Probably would have made Dean watch. That voice—those words—are just a memory. But they give Dean the strength to face himself.

“I don’t want either,” he says. His voice sounds strange in his own ears: trembling and hoarse. “I want my brother back. I want—God, I wish I hadn’t made that deal. I wish I hadn’t done this to you. But I couldn’t—without you, I just couldn’t, and I—it’s my fault. All of this is m-my fault. And I can’t—Jesus, I can’t take much more of this, so I … yeah, if it’s a choice between you making me forget who I am and you r-ra—taking what you want, then just take it already.”

“No,” Sam says. He sounds almost as broken as Dean feels, and Dean wishes that he could see through his tears: wishes he could make out the expression on his brother’s face. “If I—Dean, if I did that, I don’t think that you’d—I want _you_ , Dean. I want my brother. I don’t want some kind of hollowed out shell, so I. I’m sorry, I can’t give you that out.”

“Sammy,” Dean begs. He reaches out, clings to Sam’s shirt, and Sam lets him. His hands are gentle on Dean’s cheeks as they brush away his tears.

“If I did that to you, I—I don’t think I’d be able to pull you back. And I need you here. I need you to—to anchor me. I’m sorry, man. I’m so goddamned sorry.”

Dean’s pretty sure that the demon cutting him up inside while wearing his father’s face hurt less than this. It’s a struggle to breathe, he knows that he’s hyperventilating, and maybe he _wants_ to pass out. Because for the first time he believes, right through to his core, that Sam isn’t going to take him until he wants it. In any normal world, that knowledge would come as a relief, but instead it’s sending Dean into a panic.

Fucked up. Fucked up beyond repair.

Sam presses his mouth against the pulse in Dean’s throat and bites down. It doesn’t hurt but Dean can feel his heartbeat against his brother’s mouth and it leaves him feeling even more exposed. He sobs harder, feeling like he’s going to come apart at any moment, and then Sam’s hands settle on his waist and set up a rhythm: grip, release, grip, release.

It’s deliberate and steady, and Dean finds himself focusing on that rhythm. Feels his pulse slow from its frantic throb to match. Calm settles over him, cool and soothing as a summer rain. This time the low thrum of Sam’s power slipping into him is so subtle that Dean doesn’t realize what’s happening until he’s lax enough that he’d collapse on the floor if he weren’t being held up. His chest feels … empty.

“Getting better at this,” he mumbles.

Sam sucks at the skin in his mouth, not quite hard enough to bruise, and then draws off. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he says. The words are bitter, but Sam’s eyes are gentle as he scans Dean’s face. “You okay?”

Dean laughs hoarsely. “No.”

“Okay, stupid question. Are you … better?”

Dean wants the answer to be no, but it isn’t. Sam just shoved him into acknowledging a few truths that he wishes he could forget, but now that the initial shock is over—now that Sam’s power is running through the tattoo on his back in soothing waves—it doesn’t seen so earth-shattering.

He nods.

“Good.” Sam runs a reassuring hand up and down Dean’s side. “Good.”

Dean takes a few moments to enjoy the numb quiet inside of his chest and then asks, “Did you do that on purpose?”

It’s crossed his mind before, of course—that Sam is playing him, is taking him closer to what Sam wants in fits and starts and encouraging small explosions instead of an irrevocable meltdown—but he hasn’t ever come out and asked. He isn’t sure what it says about him that he’s asking now.

Sam’s expression is unreadable.

“Did you?” Dean presses.

Sam’s power unfurls from Dean’s body, dropping him forward into his brother's arms. Sam steadies him and then says, “There are some new movies over by the TV. I shouldn’t be gone more than a few hours. I’ll save what I can, okay?”

It takes Dean a few seconds to remember what started this whole thing in the first place and then he says, “Thanks.”

Sam regards him evenly. “I suppose it’d be pushing my luck to ask you to say it.”

Dean stares at him. He tries to process what his brother’s asking for, but his brain feels like it’s been shoved into a blender and pureed. Although he’s calm now, the aftershocks of his near-breakdown are still shuddering through his muscles and that’s even more distracting.

Sam’s eyes narrow again, but not in anger this time. Dean can read sadness in those yellow depths—or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. He isn’t surprised when Sam pulls him in closer and places a chaste kiss on his forehead.

“I love you,” Sam whispers, and then the warmth of his arms is gone.

Dean’s legs give out on him, dropping him into the floor in a heap, but Sam doesn’t pause. Dean lifts his head in time to see his brother disappearing through the door—unwarded, now that Dean knows he can’t get off this floor. It closes behind him on a breeze of power and Dean is alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean can measure the swiftness of his brother’s departure by the speed that the comforting thrum of the power running through him slows. It’s only a few minutes at most before Sam is far enough that Dean is aching and hunched over on himself. He wants his brother to come back—yearns for the numbness that Sam can bring—and the strength of his desire both frightens and sickens him. As he feels the last, lingering traces of power dissipate, his stomach lurches and he’s suddenly overwhelmed with nausea.

It takes a few floundering tries, but he eventually manages to get to his feet. His muscles are still near worthless, trembling with aftershocks, and he falls twice on his way into the bathroom. Getting up is both harder and easier each time: he’s regaining control over his limbs, but the need to hurl is only getting stronger and Dean is desperate to do that somewhere he’ll be able to clean up after himself.

If he loses control out here, he’ll either have to call one of Sam’s pet demons to take care of the mess or wait for Sam to come home and let him do it. The idea of having to do either fills Dean with disgusted shame, and he flushes with relief as he stumbles through the bathroom doorway.

One hand pressed to his stomach, he collapses in front of the toilet. The terracotta tiles are shockingly cold against his knees, and the toilet feels like ice against the palm of the hand propping him up. He leans over the side as the pulsing nausea inside of him starts to crest again and then groans when nothing comes up.

There are cramps ripping through his abdomen, sending his muscles into painful spasms, and he knows that he would be able to get some relief if he could just fucking puke already. Desperate, he tries sticking a finger down his throat. He gags on it but the sickness is locked inside his gut the same way that Sam’s mark is etched into his skin, and it isn’t coming out.

Slamming his fist back down on the toilet seat, Dean clutches the smooth porcelain and sobs. His forehead tingles where Sam kissed him, and his brother’s final words are snaking through the nausea on an endless loop.

It seemed so much like Sam at the end: like his Sammy, and not the yellow-eyed demon’s creation. It was as if the ghost of the brother Dean mourns every time he looks into Sam’s golden irises temporarily took control of that body—like there was a fucking dead man looking out from Sam’s eyes. Dean hasn’t felt so goddamned lonely for months.

 _Sammy._

There’s a sudden, crushing pain in his chest. It’s strong enough to drown out the nausea, and it keeps building until the pressure is unbearable. God, it _hurts_ ; if he doesn’t let it out somehow it’s going to kill him. Dean opens his mouth and the pain funnels into an eerie keening. It isn’t a human sound, too raw and tortured, and it terrifies Dean to know that he can even make a noise like that.

The sound pours out of him until his voice is hoarse with it and then he cracks. Clutching the toilet and shaking like he’s having some kind of seizure, he dribbles words like blood. They spill hot and shattered into the toilet: echo back to him.

“—miss you, Sammy—fuck, I can’t— _goddamn it_ —I love you, love you so fucking—left me, left me again and you _promised_ , damn it—oh God, please—please, just—want to be with you, want—I can’t fucking _do_ this anymore, I—Sammy—I need—Jesus, I need you—”

Finally, just as it did on the day of his disastrous escape attempt, some essential circuit in Dean’s brain overloads and he goes numb. He babbles on for a while out of reflex, but the words falter, slow, and then stop. The trembling in his body continues a few minutes, but eventually he stills and everything is quiet. He's left feeling empty and exhausted, and even though he’s only been awake for an hour or so, he just wants to crawl back into bed.

Dean contemplates staying where he is and sleeping here, but his face is sticky from his tears and there’s a scratchy heat pulsing behind his eyes. Using the toilet seat to push himself up, he rises and then shuffles over to the sink. The cold water is a shock on his flushed skin, and he splutters as he ducks his head under the faucet.

When he’s cooled off enough, he shuts off the water and uses one of the thick, soft towels that came with the room to dry himself off. Dropping the towel on the edge of the sink, he lifts his head and looks in the mirror.

He doesn’t recognize the man who looks back at him.

The face is familiar, of course—same cheekbones, angular jaw, and slightly peaked nose he’s regarded for years. Same full lips that have gotten him—and Sam, on one memorable occasion—into more trouble than he’d like. He’s still clean-shaven, even if he isn’t allowed to do the job himself. These days, shaving means sitting on the edge of the sink with Sam pushed up between his legs, Sam’s hands tilting his head back and tracing over smooth skin in the wake of the razor.

The man reflected back at him has longer hair than Dean remembers having: even when he was a kid, Dad always kept it short. It isn’t as long as Sam’s, but it’s long enough to hide the tips of his ears. Long enough to provide an easy handhold, which is probably the whole point.

When he comes down to it, though, it’s the eyes that really bother him.

The skin around them is slightly swollen, and the whites look scratchy and red. His irises seem greener than he’s used to thinking of them, bordering on electric against the black of his dilated pupils. All of which he could deal with, if only they weren’t so wide, so glassy and hollow. Frightened. Trapped.

They’re the eyes of a trapped animal, not a hunter.

They’re not _Dean’s_ eyes.

They can’t be.

He turns away from his reflection, dismissing it. But he’s careful not to look at the black lines scrawled across his back as he does so, and he plans on avoiding any reflective surfaces from now on. It’s easier not to acknowledge what’s happening to him when he doesn’t have to look at it.

Shoving the whole unsettling incident to the back of his mind, he heads into the main room to get dressed.

Five minutes later, he’s wearing a worn black t-shirt and a baggy pair of sweats. He can’t say that the combination makes him feel better because he still isn’t feeling much of anything, but it’s at least comfortable. Besides, it’ll annoy Sam when he gets back, and Dean needs to make some small act of rebellion after what he was put through this morning.

He isn’t sure why his brother gave him these clothes in the first place—Sam has made it clear that he prefers Dean wearing the fitted shirts and tailored pants he filled the closet with—but he hasn’t looked too closely at his possible motivation, either. Mostly because every time he starts to consider it, the two words that immediately spring to mind are _easy access_.

The flicker of fire from the window is annoying, so he heads over and pulls the curtains shut. The red fabric seems to glow, a curtain of embers, and the red tint filling the room deepens. Dean can’t decide if this is an improvement or just plain worse, but in the end he leaves them shut. He’ll be less tempted to look outside this way.

Turning to survey the room, he stares the bed for a long moment. It’d be nice to crawl back underneath the covers and sleep until Sam gets back. Let the nightmares take him away for a while.

Then again, Sam hardly ever leaves. While Dean is still as trapped in these rooms as ever, at least he’s alone. There aren’t eyes on him, tracking every twitch of his muscles, every hitched breath. There aren’t hands wandering over his skin, pushing just hard enough to keep him on edge without tumbling him irrevocably into madness.

Turning sharply, Dean heads over to the couch. He sprawls out across the plush cushions, tilting his body away from the window. The movies Sam mentioned are laying in a pile on the coffee table. There are a few horror movies, a couple of action flicks, and a battered copy of _Debbie Does Dallas_ , which makes Dean laugh harshly.

He must have jerked off to that movie a hundred times when he was a teenager, back before this whole thing with Sam started. It isn’t that he had any real interest in the film; it was just easy to get his hands on a copy whenever he had an itch to scratch and didn’t want to go through the hassle of picking someone up.

He wonders if Sam knows that or if this is just one of those freaky coincidences. It isn’t exactly an obscure porno, after all. Not that it matters. Either way, Sam left this movie for a reason, and it’s pretty damned obvious that he's not so subtly encouraging Dean to prod his libido back into motion. The whole set up is ridiculous.

After all, with the way Sam’s been taking his confession in the bathroom as a green light to let his hands wander, it isn’t like Dean needs the help. Just because he isn’t actually getting off, doesn’t mean he isn’t getting it up.

Dean nudges the DVD cases with one foot and idly considers watching something. Not the porno, of course—he isn’t sitting through that again if he can help it—but there are less offensive options. He hasn’t seen _Bullitt_ for years, and Steve McQueen was pretty badass in that movie.

In the end, though, he can’t stir up the energy it would require to throw something on. He’s a little short on motivation as well, to tell the truth. Movies are a bittersweet experience these days: they’re an escape, but they’re also a reminder that things are … different.

Dean isn’t sure how long he has been sitting there, just soaking in the solitude and not thinking about anything particularly distressing, when the door to the suite swings open. It doesn’t seem long enough for Sam to be returning—not unless he changed his mind. Dean’s exhausted calm holds until he cranes his neck around to see who it is, and then a spike of panic sends him scrambling to his feet.

There’s really nowhere to go, but he makes a break for the room Sam has claimed as his study anyway. He knows that his brother warded the door, and if he can get on the other side of it—if he can manage to slam it shut and activate those wards—then he might have a fighting chance. Predictably, he only makes it a few feet before he’s lifted and tossed against the wall next to the window.

The impact doesn’t hurt as much as it should—hardly even knocks the breath from him—and he isn’t sure whether the yellow-eyed son of a bitch is being careful in order to avoid pissing off Sam, or if he’s just harder to hurt. If Sam did something to him. Sam touches Dean so often these days, tracing patterns onto his skin that leave him weak and tingling, and it’s sometimes difficult to tell how much of what comes out of his brother’s mouth is sentiment and how much is ritual.

The yellow-eyed demon’s eyes don’t look particularly yellow as it ambles over to the couch and rests its hand on the back. The red glow muddies them, leaving them a sickly, bloody color. Funny how Sam’s still looked golden even when filled with the flickering of the flames. Dean isn’t sure what that says about his brother, but he knows that he doesn’t like it.

The door to the suite clicks shut and Dean’s eyes automatically jump toward the sound. Looks like the yellow-eyed demon brought one of its lackeys with it: a woman with long, dark hair and sloe eyes. Delicate, lovely features and an hourglass figure. She gives Dean a small smile and saunters up to the couch where he was sitting. When she reclines back on the cushions, the long, skintight dress she’s wearing shows her curves off to their best advantage.

“Alone at last,” the yellow eyed demon purrs.

Dean stares at the bastard silently: can’t think of a comeback. It was easier to put on a brave front when he wasn’t reduced to living like some pampered pet, collared and chained. It was easier before Sam started ripping him apart and fitting the pieces together again in a more pleasing—a more yielding—shape. He remembers a time when he would have been more pissed than panicked in this kind of situation, but he can’t recall exactly how that _felt_. The son of a bitch who twisted his life into a carnival of blood and gunpowder and death is smirking at him, and Dean doesn’t feel anything but defeated.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forgive Sam for that.

“What, no witty retort?” the demon asks as it strolls over to stand in front of him. “Gotta say, I’m disappointed. And after I went through so much trouble to get you alone.”

That takes a moment to sink in and then all Dean can think is that he should have known. Would have known if he’d thought about it.

Fire always was the bastard’s specialty.

Beyond all expectation, the panic in Dean’s gut twists into anger. All that destruction: all that waste. And for what? So that the fucker can gloat over him some more? The words snarl past his lips before he even knows he’s opened his mouth.

“You son of a bitch.”

The demon’s eyes gleam with vicious amusement. “Ah, there it is. Looks like Sammy hasn’t completely housetrained you yet.”

Ignoring the rush of hate at the familiar way the bastard’s voice caresses his brother’s name, Dean demands, “Why?”

The demon grins, taking a step closer and pressing into Dean’s personal space. The movement sets off an unsettling resonation inside of him: echoes of that night in the cabin. This time, though, it isn’t content to let him feel the heat of its stolen body. Resting one hand on Dean’s hip, it trails the other across his cheek and suddenly Dean is reminded so strongly of Sam that his stomach turns. He turns his face away, pulling as far out of that touch as he can, and the demon chuckles.

“I get why he wants you,” it says. “Humans are amusing in general—pathetic, but amusing—but you ... you’re just _begging_ to be broken, aren’t you?” It rubs its thumb across Dean’s lower lip, jerking its hand away just in time for his teeth to snap shut on thin air.

“Ooo, feisty.” The demon grins. “I like that. It’s no fun if you don’t fight back.”

It’s just fucking with him. It has to be. It can’t seriously be intending to do anything to him, let alone _that_. Pissed doesn’t even begin to describe the mood it’d put Sam in.

But Dean can't overlook the hunger in the yellow-eyed demon’s eyes. And there’s no mistaking the slow flex of its hand on his hip.

It feels wrong on so many levels to threaten the bastard with Sam—his little brother, whom he still feels like he should be protecting—but it isn’t like Dean has anything else going for him here. If the demon really intends to do this, it can use its power to hold him down, hold him _open_ , and … no. Just no. He isn’t going to let his pride fuck him over.

“You touch me and Sam’ll—”

“Sam will what?” the demon interrupts. “Spill out my insides in a steaming pile of meat? I don’t think so, Dean. You see, you and me … we’re sort of inseparable these days.”

Releasing his hip _(oh thank God)_ , it takes a single step backwards and raises its right hand. It spreads its fingers wide, hand turned out so that Dean can see its palm, and then trails its thumb across the unlined skin. Blood, bright red and startling, springs forth in the wake of that touch, and Dean feels an answering sting in his own palm.

What the fuck?

The demon’s grin widens at the confusion on Dean’s face. A tendril of power wraps around his wrist and draws his hand up in front of his eyes. Another pulse opens his fingers so that he can see the identical cut on his palm. Dean stares at the blood smearing his skin and goes cold.

“A side effect of the resurrection ritual,” the demon tells him as it closes its own hand into a fist. “You never wondered why Sammy dearest used your blood to raise me?”

Dean hasn’t, obviously. At first he was too horrified by the sight of his brother kneeling in the dirt at the demon’s feet, drinking from the wide gash in the bastard’s wrist, to think anything beyond, _No_. Later, there were ... other things to worry about.

Now that he finally takes the time to consider it, it isn’t difficult to figure out what Sam was thinking when he made this particular decision. “He knew you’d try something,” Dean says.

The demon lowers Dean’s hand to his side again. “You’re brighter than you look. Of course, it’s a two way street. Sammy kills me, and you die.”

Dean barely manages to swallow the curse that information provokes. No way in hell is protecting him from the yellow-eyed demon worth giving the bastard the same protection. Sam should have known that, damn it.

The demon’s expression is way too fucking smug and Dean flounders around for something to take it down a peg. He doesn’t have to look far. “Gee, you must’ve had a real good day when I cut my wrist. Hope I didn’t get blood on your favorite shirt or anything.”

The mocking expression on the demon’s face disappears in an instant. The satisfaction that lightens Dean’s chest feels unfamiliar after so long, but it’s more than welcome. Looks like his piss poor escape attempt was good for something after all.

It takes the demon a moment to school its expression and then it says coolly, “Yes, remind me to thank you for that. Or maybe I’ll just have Lilith thank you for me.”

Dean has almost forgotten that the woman is there, but as she rises with a smooth motion he finds that he can’t keep his eyes off of her. She stalks toward him and he takes in the curve of her body, the fullness of her lips, the swell of her breasts. Heat rushes though him, and hunger, and she isn’t doing anything but looking at him.

Steeling himself, he offers her a tight grin. “ _The_ Lilith?” he asks. “I’m honored. Really.”

“Oh, but we’ve met before, baby,” she purrs, and presses up against him.

Dean’s skin ignites at her touch, need playing across him like fire. It’s similar to the way Sam makes him feel when he slides his power through the symbols etched into Dean’s back. This is more diffuse, though, and there’s a taste building at the back of his throat, like burnt cinnamon. He recognizes this.

“Lust,” he pants. “You bitch.”

“Well, payback _is_ ,” she points out, stroking his neck. “You know, that holy water really hurt, Dean. Not to mention getting sent back to that rat hole of a prison. But this is gonna make it all worth it.” Her mouth latches onto his collarbone and need pumps into him like venom.

“What the fuck are you doing to me?” Dean grounds out, fighting to focus through the painful tension in his groin.

The yellow-eyed demon drops a hand on Lilith’s shoulder and he can think a little clearer. She’s still kissing him, though, and her hands are wandering, sliding up underneath his shirt.

“Get off me,” Dean growls, and then hisses as one of her fingernails scrapes across his nipple. She makes a purring sound and presses closer.

“Give us a moment.”

The demon’s words are soft and Lilith doesn't seem to hear it at first, but then it tightens its grip and she gives a pained mewl. Dropping Dean like he’s suddenly been doused with holy water, she backs away. Her right hand rises to rub at her shoulder, and her eyes are solid black as she glares at the demon.

It ignores her, stepping into the space she abandoned and catching Dean’s gaze with its own. This close, its irises look like rings of blood.

“As much as you’ve pissed me off, this isn’t about you,” it tells him.

Dean huffs out a laugh, but his bravado has never felt so transparent before. His body is still strung tight from Lilith’s touch, and he knows that this isn’t a ceasefire: it’s just a reprieve so that the demon can grandstand some more. After that, he’s gonna be tossed right back to the skanky bitch.

“Yeah right,” he says. “You pulled my name out of a hat.”

The demon’s expression doesn't flicker. “It’s about Sam.”

Dean wasn’t feeling particularly cheerful before, but at the mention of his brother a low, creeping dread lodges at the base of his spine. He doesn’t say anything.

“Sammy was my golden boy,” the demon continues after a moment. “My Alexander. But ever since your … accident … he’s been a little distracted. Do you have any idea how much ground we’ve lost over the last few weeks?”

Dean hasn’t thought about the war in months, actually. He’s been assuming that everything was over: that Sam has been able to stay here so much because the demons won. He never even considered the possibility that his brother has been playing hooky.

“How much?” he asks, not even bothering to hide the hope in his voice.

“We lost Des Moines this morning,” the demon answers.

Dean’s chest suddenly feels so light it’s difficult to breathe; the only other time he remembers feeling so goddamned happy is when the crossroads bitch brought his brother back from the dead. The laugh that bubbles out of him is joyous. The demon could rip out his intestines and use them for garlands right now, and he’d still laugh.

Iowa. The hunters have managed to push the demons all the way back to Iowa.

“Oh man,” he says, “That’s gotta burn.”

The fact that the demon doesn’t look upset should be a warning sign, but Dean is too elated to care until it says, “It isn’t anything we can’t retake in a day, once Sammy gets his head back in the game.”

Dean feels his smile wither and die under the demon’s unblinking stare. He’s starting to rethink that garland thing.

“I need him focused,” it continues, “Not trailing after you like some lovesick puppy.” It inches closer, lips brushing against his cheek. “So I’m going to give him what he wants. A good fuck and we’ll be back on track.”

Dean’s eyes flicker to Lilith. She’s watching him with dark, hungry eyes, and as soon as she sees that she has his attention, she licks her lips. Everything is falling into place in Dean’s head now, and he really wishes that it wasn’t.

“You aren’t as irresistible as you’re cracked up to be,” he bluffs. “What makes you think that putting the whammy on me is gonna work any better this time than it did before?”

“I’ve got more time with you now, baby,” Lilith answers. “And you already want Sam: I can smell it on you. That makes all the difference in the world.”

She slinks forward and the yellow-eyed demon moves aside. Dean fights against the power holding him in place, slamming his head back into the wall in an effort to break the demon’s concentration. It grimaces briefly and then extends its hold up over his head, paralyzing him completely.

Sick desperation rises in him like floodwaters. They can’t do this to him, not now. They’re winning, damn it; the good guys are _winning_.

Lilith arches against him like a cat, inhaling his scent and letting out a small, greedy sound.

“Just think,” the yellow-eyed demon says, “You get to be the one who hands the world to us. Without you, none of this would be possible.” It gives him its widest, Cheshire cat grin. “Remember that if you manage to come through this sane.”

For a few, fleeting moments, Dean’s hate overcomes his despair. He can feel it, solid and hot in his mouth: can taste the iron of it.

Then Lilith’s hands cup his face, and burnt cinnamon chases the iron away. She’s up on her tiptoes to reach him, eyes black as a beetle’s carapace. Dean has never felt less turned on in his life.

“Give me a kiss, baby,” she murmurs, and draws his mouth down to her own.

Lust takes him. God, he wants—he _needs_ —to touch and he can’t move. He participates as much as he’s allowed, opening his mouth and shoving his tongue past her lips and drinking in everything that she gives him. In some distant, dark corner of his mind he can hear himself screaming, but desire lies over everything like a thick blanket of snow and the sound is muffled.

Lilith’s hand drops to cup Dean through his sweatpants and the need in his gut sharpens. It has a focus now, and he understands instinctively that there’s only one way he’s going to get any release.

Sam. He needs Sam. Sam’s hands Sam’s mouth Sam’s cock. Sam’s body pressed up against his, Sam filling him, taking him.

When Lilith finally pulls away, Dean is shaking. He can’t see through the need: can barely remember to breathe. It feels like fire has seeped in through the window and coated his skin in greedy flames.

Someone is in the room with him. Someone _(not Sam)_ comes close and whispers in his ear.

“How about you be a good boy and wait for Sammy over here?”

Hands, or maybe something less tangible, maneuver Dean away from the wall. He doesn’t know where he is exactly—somewhere in the suite still, and needing Sam so badly it hurts. The same force that’s moving him forward presses down on Dean’s shoulders and he goes to his knees.

“Yes,” that cold voice whispers. “On your knees for him, right here.”

For a split second, there’s a word in Dean’s head and it isn’t _Sammy_ , but _yellow_. Then he hitches in another breath and is lost again. Words he can’t comprehend flutter around him, brushing up against his skin and making him so. Fucking. Hungry.

“Can I strip him?” a second voice asks, and a hand touches his cheek. Not Sammy not Sam his Sam but it’s _contact_ and Dean leans into it a little, moaning.

“Let Sammy unwrap his present himself.”

The hand lifts. Dean chases after it—God, he _wants_ , he _needs_ —and something locks down around his muscles, holding him in place.

“Stay there,” comes a soft voice. “Right on your knees like a good whore. Sam will be back soon, and then he’ll take care of you.”

Lips brush against Dean’s, sparking lightning through him and making him cry out in something too intense to be pleasure anymore. The taste of burnt cinnamon floods his mouth. “Have fun, baby.”

Then the someones who aren’t Sam leave, taking the voices with them. Dean stays where he is, too turned on to move or even to think about how he could maybe get a little relief while he’s waiting. It wouldn’t matter even if he could: the knowledge that he isn’t going to be able to come without Sam’s help is strong even through the dampening fog.

Time stretches into taffy, spun out and clinging to his skin. Every breath brings the rasp of his t-shit against his nipples. Every beat of his heart pushes his cock that much harder against the soft cradle of his sweatpants.

He can feel Sam coming as soon as his brother walks into the building. Feels Sam’s nearness as a pressure in his groin: as a maddening caress through the lines inked into his back. When the door opens, and Sam is There, Sam’s scent flooding the room, Dean’s entire body shudders. He wants to sprint to his brother but he can’t move. Can only kneel there trembling as heavy footsteps approach, bringing the scent of ash and heat and _Sammy_ closer.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks, and oh _fuck_ , his voice alone is almost enough to make Dean come.

Sam’s hand drops on Dean’s shoulder and the force holding him snaps. He surges up and grabs his brother’s shirt. Sam doesn’t resist as Dean pulls him in, finding those soft, welcoming lips by instinct. He lets out a startled breath that Dean breathes in and then they’re kissing.

 _Sam Sam Sam Sam._ It’s the only word in Dean’s head, and the world has funneled down to the push and pull of their lips, to Sam’s tongue in his mouth, to Sam’s hands clutching at his face like he’s afraid that Dean will pull away at any moment.

Dean brings his own hands up and tangles them in his brother’s hair. Holds Sam close while their mouths work together. It feels like forever since he’s done this, but the fit is fine, it’s perfect, it’s like the snap of a puzzle piece fitting into place and he still wants more.

Sam makes a despairing, half-furious noise when Dean jerks away from the kiss. Ignoring the sound, Dean drops back to his knees and grabs his brother’s hips to move in for what he's been waiting for. A groan sticks in his throat when he finds jeans instead of flesh, but he can feel Sam beneath that fabric, hard _(yes good)_ and ready for him _(even better)_. Moaning and desperate, he mouths at the barrier. He’d rather have Sam’s flesh with nothing between them, but he can’t scrape together enough cohesion to figure out how to get to all that soft skin.

Sam’s hands are rough on his head, pressing him closer while he moans out ‘Dean’, and ‘yeah’ and ‘fucking finally’. Dean twists his head sideways and bites down _(not too hard, careful careful don’t hurt him)_ on his brother’s cock through the jeans and Sam’s words cut off.

Dean finds himself being hauled back to his feet and then shoved. He falls through space and lands on something soft and cushioned. Before he can do more than register _bed_ Sam is on him again, hungry hands roaming across Dean’s body. Okay, yes, this is good too.

Dean squirms as Sam shoves his shirt up and sucks bruises into his stomach. Then there’s the rough pull of fabric over his face and Sam is everywhere: Sam’s mouth on his nipple, Sam’s hands gripping his biceps. Dean makes an inarticulate cry as his brother crawls higher up his body, aligning their hips and thrusting. Bursts of white flare in his vision.

“Tell me,” Sam pants between _ohsogood_ bites to Dean’s throat. “Say it.”

Dean doesn’t know what his brother is talking about: can’t really make sense of the words and wouldn’t be able to form a reply even if he did. A heartbeat passes and it doesn’t matter any more because he can’t think past the feel of Sam pushing him down, Sam’s mouth on his skin, Sam’s hands all over him. Grabbing Sam’s ass, he pulls his brother more firmly against him, arching up into all the contact that he needs—he needs—no, he needs more—needs to be fucked—needs to come.

Sam’s body shudders against his. “Dean. Dean, tell me.”

Sam needs to stop talking. Sam needs get rid of all those ash-flaked clothes. Sam needs to be inside of him.

“Dean!” Sam shouts like he’s in pain, like this is hurting him, and his thrusts stutter.

Dean make a noise of protest and tightens his grip, trying to work his brother back into that sexyfasthardgood rhythm they had going. The flare of power is unexpected, shocking enough that Dean pulls back from the need a little. For a second there, it felt like the sheets weren’t silk at all but rather woven from barbed wire.

“Can you hear me?” Sam grunts. The weight of his body lifts and then Dean feels his sweat pants being shoved midway down his thighs.

He would answer his brother’s question, but he’s already drowning again. There is so much of Sam over his skin, like the slide of oil. He’s air and Sam is heat and together they’re igniting, they’re burning, and in Dean’s mind he sees a world on fire. Sees columns of flame, miles high, that burn the clouds and sear the sky red.

Pain again. Longer this time, and fiercer, and Dean sobs with it. When it stops he can see for the first time in what feels like hours, and Sam is lying half on top of him. His brother's skin is streaked with soot, and his clothes are singed. He’s struggling to undo his buckle with one hand while he works Dean’s cock with the other.

 _What the hell?_ Dean thinks and then he remembers the yellow-eyed demon’s visit. Remembers Lilith. _No no no no,_ he screams silently, but the lust is already spilling back in, and he can’t stop himself from bucking up for Sam. From shoving his hands up underneath Sam’s shirt to find feverish skin.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks between deep, devouring kisses. “I can—something’s wrong—need you to—fuck, Dean—tell me this is okay.”

That screaming, aware place inside Dean’s head is receding, but he clings to it. _Iowa_ , he thinks, as if that word can shield him from the lust spreading through him like cancer. He knows that Sam would stop if he knew that Dean doesn’t want this, that he isn’t ready, that it’s one big fucking setup with Dean staked out like a sacrificial goat.

But he can’t talk; all of his words have been crushed beneath the weight of desire. He can’t even push Sam away. His own hands are greedy on his brother’s skin, his left moving up to clutch Sam’s shoulder blade and his right fighting to push beneath Sam’s resistant jeans.

This is what Hell feels like.

Then the bracelets go red hot and jerk Dean’s hands away. Dean’s wrists are pinned against the mattress as Sam’s power clamps down over the rest of his body, freezing him in place. Sam gives his dick one final, torturous stroke and then forces his hand away. His head drops forward to rest on Dean’s shoulder. There’s a moment of silent, building need, and then agony splinters across Dean’s back.

It’s laughable that he’s ever claimed to be in pain. He’s never been flayed before, after all. Never had his skin peeled back from his muscles, never had acid poured over the gaping wound of his flesh or had thousands of tiny, electrified razors slicing through the raw meat of body.

Dean would scream if he could open his mouth: he’d writhe and struggle to get away, no matter how hot his blood is.

But Sam doesn’t give him that option, just keeps up that steady push of power and groans, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I—I don’t want to hurt you, baby, but this is—I don’t know how else to get through to you.” Distantly, Dean feels his brother’s hands slide along his side in a nervous, soothing gesture. “Someone did something to you, didn’t they? Nod your head if they did.”

Dean tries for a nod and jerks his head so rapidly that he’s probably giving himself whiplash.

“Will it go away on its own?” Sam asks. “If I leave, will it—”

Dean shakes his head. No. No, he needs Sam. Needs him to finish this.

“Can you—on your own, can you handle it if—”

Dean has no answer for that except a hoarse sob and an attempt to make his hands work again so that he can feel his brother’s skin sliding beneath his fingertips. Not even the agony pouring through him is going to hold the need off much longer.

Sam swallows and nods jerkily against Dean’s shoulder. “Okay. Okay, I’ve got you.”

The pain in Dean’s back vanishes so abruptly that he almost blacks out. A strong hand wraps around his cock and he responds automatically, twitching his hips up. To his relief, they actually obey him and he starts rutting up into Sam’s grip at a furious pace. There’s nothing soothing the friction but his own precum, and Sam isn’t actually participating anymore, which means that it’s probably the crappiest hand job he’s ever had, but it doesn’t matter because it’s _Sam_ , and this is what he’s been craving. This is what he _needs_.

He doesn’t understand why he doesn’t shoot off immediately: why he’s caught on the edge of spilling over with no relief in sight. He’s so horny he wants to cry, and in a minute he’s going to because this isn’t fucking _working_ , and then Sam whispers, “Come for me, baby,” and that’s it.

It hurts. It feels like his soul is pouring out through his dick and it seems to go on and on: one high note of tension stretching him out in a voiceless scream. Sam’s face is still buried against his shoulder, his breath heavy and hot over Dean’s skin, and Dean can feel Sam’s erection pressing against his thigh. For one blinding heartbeat, he _wants_ so badly that he does cry out, an inarticulate shout of mingled passion and pain, and then it’s over.

For the first time since that bitch Lilith touched him, Dean’s mind is entirely his own again. His body is covered in sweat, and his muscles are sore and quaking with exhaustion. His balls ache like they’ve been kicked by a freaking mule, and he’s sticky with semen pooled on his stomach, coating his cock, slipping between his thighs. He hasn’t come this hard since he was a teenager.

And there’s Sam.

Sam draped over him and wanting but not taking.

It’s disorienting as hell. Dean knows that Sam wants him to come to this willingly, but he _was_ willing. Or he seemed willing, anyway. Dean’s memories of the last hour _(two? three?)_ are blurry, but he seems to remember throwing himself at Sam. Fuck, he did everything but shove his brother’s dick up his ass—would’ve done that if he could have gotten the coordination to strip Sam’s pants off.

Sam didn’t have to look deeper: he didn’t have to pull himself back like that. Maybe he—God, maybe Sam really _does_ still love him. What the fuck would that mean, anyway? It doesn’t change what Sam has done: doesn’t wash away the blood on his hands. It doesn’t make one goddamned bit of difference … except maybe it makes this a little bit harder.

It’s easier not to love someone who is incapable of loving you back.

Dean realizes slowly that Sam is still stroking his spent cock. His brother’s hand is gentle, and there’s plenty of slick now that he came all over himself, and it isn’t as bad as he wants it to be. His gut still gives that familiar lurch, but he isn’t exactly freaking out. Which, ironically enough, freaks him the fuck out.

Sam must sense Dean’s rising fear because his hand slides off of Dean’s cock to rest on his hip. It’s an uncomfortably wet touch. “You back with me?” he asks.

It takes Dean a few swallows before he manages to croak out, “Yeah.”

Sam is off him in an instant, striding into the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him. Dean can hear his brother through the walls: can feel the power bleed heating the air from his sprawled position on the bed. Sam’s voice as he shouts obscenities is rough—two parts agony and one part passion—and it hurts to hear him like that.

Rolling over onto his side, Dean brings his knees up to his chest. He's filthy and he’d really like to get cleaned up, but from the sound of things he doesn’t want to go into the bathroom right now. As he stares into the red-tinted air, he wonders why Sam didn’t put the fire out while he was gone. He can hear Sam jacking himself off in the other room: feels the phantom slide of his brother’s hand along his cock.

It doesn’t take long: a few minutes tops and then Sam’s curses slip into a breathy hitch that Dean remembers so well from Before. Then silence, broken only by the sound of running water.

When Sam emerges from the bathroom, his skin is clean and he’s carrying a wet facecloth. He crouches next to the bed and holds it out.

“Here. Clean yourself up.” There’s rage in his voice, and even though Dean knows that he isn’t the one in trouble this time, he feels a flutter of fear as he takes the cloth.

Dean glances down at the facecloth in his hand and then back up at his brother. He waits for a moment, hoping that Sam will give him some privacy for this, but Sam’s gaze doesn’t waver and Dean isn’t about to cross him when he’s in this kind of mood. Taking a shaky breath, he uncurls enough to start scrubbing at his stomach.

Sam watches Dean steadily as he wipes himself down, but for once he isn’t looking at his body. He’s studying Dean’s face with a tiny, inscrutable frown. Dean keeps sneaking looks at his brother, trying to figure out what’s going on in Sam’s head and failing miserably.

The lack of any identifiable expression on his brother’s face, coupled with the intensity of his gaze, leaves Dean feeling exposed and awkward. He doesn’t know how to react to this kind of focused attention when sex isn’t involved. Doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He finishes as quickly as he can and offers the facecloth back. It takes Sam a moment to pull out of whatever he’s thinking and then he accepts it gingerly. He brushes his knuckles against Dean’s upper arm before rising and heading back to the bathroom.

Alone again, Dean considers pulling his sweat pants back up from their current location twisted around his ankles. But he’s exhausted and really, what’s the fucking point? In the end, he settles for curling in on himself again, bringing his arms up to cover his face.

He doesn’t hear Sam’s footsteps approaching, but he isn’t surprised when a sudden weight dips the other side of the bed. After a moment, Sam’s hands slide around his shoulders and tug gently. Dean resists, leaning forward against the pull, and his brother’s grip tightens. He can tell from the way that Sam’s fingers are digging into his skin that this is happening whether he wants it to or not, so he lets out a curt laugh and makes himself go limp.

The sweatpants drag free from his feet as Sam hauls his unresisting body up. Sam’s chest is warm against his back: the singed fabric of his shirt is still soft. Sam’s arms wrap around Dean, cradling him closer, and he feels comforted despite himself. Turning his head sideways, he buries his face against Sam’s shoulder. Sam adjusts his grip, bringing up one hand to stroke Dean’s hair.

Dean can’t tell whether his brother is pulling any of his demon messiah crap to calm him down or not, but he has to be. The alternative—that Dean wants this, that he’s enjoying this of his own free will—isn’t something he feels up to contemplating right now.

“Who was it?” The question is furious, but none of Sam’s rage melts through into the way he’s touching Dean.

Dean knows that this is information Sam has to have, but he doesn’t want to talk about it right now. All he wants is to shut his eyes and pretend that it’s Sammy behind him. He wants to pretend that it’s Before, and they’re in some piece of crap motel between hunts.

He wants to feel safe, even if it is only an illusion.

“I need a fucking _name_ , Dean,” Sam prods, and Dean detects a tremor in the hand stroking his hair.

He doesn’t like to use the yellow-eyed demon’s name—doesn’t even like to think it. That son of a bitch doesn’t deserve to be singled out in any way that doesn’t involve a bullet to the skull. Just this once, though, he brings himself to say it.

“Azazel.”

Sam fingers clench, digging into his arm and scalp and turning the embrace into something colder. Confining instead of comforting. Dean should have known it wouldn’t last.

“He couldn’t do this on his own,” his brother says. “Who else?”

“Lilith.”

“Did they—” Sam sounds uncertain for the first time since that night in the graveyard. He has to clear his throat before finishing, “Did they touch you?”

“No,” Dean says, but he must have hesitated because Sam’s power flares savagely.

“Where?” he growls.

“It doesn’t—”

 _Matter_ , Dean is going to say, but then Sam’s power shoves inside his head and he sucks in a shocked breath instead. His body bucks reflexively at the intrusion, a wordless groan of denial spilling from his lips. Sam stills his struggles by tightening the arm slung across his chest and that probing power forces its way deeper. Dean struggles against it, but he’s about as effective a moth trying to beat back a tidal wave with its wings, and in the end Sam just … rolls him under.

Power crackles through Dean’s head, spinning memories past too quickly for him to make any sense of them. Sam is rifling around in his mind, glancing at his hopes and fears and then discarding them as inconsequential. Dean wants to whisper something—maybe a plea for Sam to stop—but he isn’t in the driver’s seat anymore and he can only watch the disorienting flicker-flash of his life speeding by. Then, abruptly, Sam finds what he’s looking for and Dean is dropped back into place against the wall with the yellow-eyed demon and Lilith before him.

Instead of his own roiling emotions, as he watches the scene play out in front of him again he’s cradled by the angry pulse of his brother’s power. Sam’s rage increases at every forbidden touch, every mocking word. By the time the yellow-eyed demon deposits Dean’s memory-self in front of the bed again, Dean feels half-smothered by it.

His head aches when Sam finally releases him, and he chokes on his next, gasping breath. His old friend nausea is back, crawling eagerly through his stomach, but Sam doesn’t give him a chance to dwell on any of that.

Flipping Dean over onto his back, he growls, “Mine,” and then licks along his collarbone.

Dean tries to push Sam away and then the cuffs on his wrists come to life again and pin his hands to the bed. His breath is coming too fast and shallow, and he’s terrified of the fury radiating off his brother’s skin.

Sam takes his time. His hands stroke Dean’s sides while he leaves slow, lingering kisses on his neck, his lips, his chest. It doesn’t take Dean long to figure out that this is Sam’s way of reclaiming him: Sam’s mouth going wherever Lilith and the yellow-eyed demon touched him. It’s disorienting to have Sam worshiping his body so tenderly when his anger fills the air with a hot, metallic odor, but Dean’s nerves slowly settle.

When his brother finally slides down his body, Dean makes a startled noise. Then he remembers Lilith cupping his cock through his sweatpants and his stomach sinks. He considers kicking Sam off of him, but that isn’t going to get him anywhere. Not when Sam can hold him down with a stray thought and do whatever he wants anyway. His hands twist uselessly, trying to find something to hold onto, and then Sam says, “ _Dean_.”

It’s a command and Dean’s eyes are drawn down to meet his brother’s. His breath catches at the depth of the anger in Sam’s gaze: it’s like Sam bottled the firestorm outside and then slammed it back like a tequila shooter. It takes Dean a few seconds to realize that there’s something else in his brother’s eyes, shining through the flames. Something deep and steady and vast. An emotion that slows his fluttering heart.

 _No_ , he thinks, and then, _yes_ , and Sam lowers his head.

Dean’s body isn’t exactly unhappy with the current situation, and Sam would have to be blind to miss the fact that there’s a hard cock about an inch from his mouth. The glance he casts back up at Dean tells him that, however fucked up his brother's irises are by the power rolling through him, his vision is fine. There’s a smirk twisting Sam’s lips as he licks them deliberately, and Dean has to clench his jaw shut. He doesn’t know whether the ‘please’ that trembles inside of him translates to _stop_ or _more_.

Sam pauses long enough that Dean's jaw starts to ache and then he purses his lips and exhales. Hot, moist air rushes over Dean’s cock, drawing a groan from his throat. Before the noise has finished clearing his lips, Sam has finished sliding up his body. He catches Dean's mouth in a slow, deep kiss.

When he pulls back and whispers, “Mine,” again, he sounds more even more furious. Dean is still trying to figure out how that’s even possible when his brother grips his right forearm and drags his hand up. He’s all but forgotten about the yellow-eyed demon’s little demonstration, but the cut is still there, a shallow red line on his palm. Sam regards it for a moment and then nuzzles the broken skin.

Dean remembers his brother licking the wound in his wrist shut, of course: that isn’t the kind of thing it’s easy to forget. But he’s still faintly surprised by the way that the gentle swipe of his brother’s tongue seals the cut and chases away the faint, lingering sting. Sam laps at the smooth skin until the last traces of blood are cleared away and then presses a final kiss to Dean’s fingertips.

Dean is shaking as his hand is lowered back to the bed, overcome with a yearning for—God, he doesn’t know what he wants but he’s so—and Sam is being—and he doesn’t know—

“Mine,” Sam says for a third time, and then climbs off Dean to stand next to the bed. Before Dean can move, power slides over him, dragging silk sheets up to cover his body.

“Stay there.”

There are still times when Dean would argue with such a blatant command—on principle if for no other reason—but this isn’t one of them. Not with Sam’s eyes glowing like white fire and— _Jesus_ —red flickers of energy dancing around his fingertips.

Sam’s eyes fall shut for a moment and a pulse goes through the room. Dean feels it pass through his bones like an earthquake. He doesn’t have to ask his brother to know that was a summons.

Dizzy and worn out, he watches silently as Sam spins the couch around to face the door with a gesture. His brother gives him one last, lingering look, and then settles down to wait.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean can’t tear his eyes away from his brother.

From his vantage point on the bed, Sam is in profile. The back of his head is awash with red from the window—burgundy flames tangled in his dark hair—and his face is in shadow. All the darkness in the room seems to have nestled close around him, thick and rustling. Dean can mark out his brother’s left eye by a faint amber gleam, but he can’t discern any expression through the gloom. His gaze is drawn again and again to Sam’s left arm, which is resting on the back of the couch. To that red energy, the color of ripe cranberries, that dances around his fingers.

All of Sam's attention is focused on the door, a funnel of concentration that Dean can almost see thickening the air.

They wait. It doesn’t take long.

Dean can’t help but flinch when the door opens and the yellow-eyed bastard strolls in, but there’s no real fear in the movement. Sam is here, and Dean feels … not safe, exactly, but protected. It’s confusing: he spent so long looking out for Sam and, more recently, _fearing_ him, that he doesn’t quite know what to do with this new dependence.

There's no time to dwell on it now, though, because Lilith slinks in on the demon's heels; they must have been waiting for this summons together. At the sight of her, Dean’s stomach twists into a wretched mess of shame and helplessness. His mind slips back without any urging, following the path Sam took mere minutes before.

 _He’s pinned to the wall, and she’s touching him. Her hands—her mouth—are all over him, burning desire infecting his blood and he can’t fucking move, he can’t_

Power slides over Dean's skin like ice water, shocking him out of the flashback. He drags his eyes from Lilith and Sam isn’t looking at him: isn’t giving any outward sign that he’s doing anything but sitting there. There’s nowhere else this wash of power could have come from, though, and as Dean clutches the last, soothing threads of it close he's humiliatingly grateful.

When he looks back toward the demons, the yellow-eyed bastard is giving a perfunctory bow of his head to Sam. Lilith hovers in the doorway, her eyes flat and wary. Dean notes the nervous pallor of her skin and feels a little better.

As the yellow-eyed demon straightens, it glances toward the bed. Dean feels it take in his clothes, shirt tossed in a heap on the floor, sweatpants discarded on the other side of the bed. Its eyes travel up his body beneath the sheet, lingering on his bruised lips. He glances away before it can look in his eyes, but the soft chuckle it makes at the avoidance almost makes him wish he hadn’t.

“Looks like someone finally broke his fast,” the demon says. Dean can hear the grin in its voice. “So, how was he? Just as tight and warm as you remembered?”

There’s no warning. Just a burst of power that lights the room like a solar flare and then Dean’s cheek splits open. Blood spills down onto the sheets from the gash, hot and slippery against the fingers of the hand he automatically presses to the wound. He must have made some kind of noise when it happened because when his eyes dart over to his brother, Sam is looking back at him.

At the edges of his awareness, Dean notices that the demon’s cheek bears a similar cut, deep enough that a gleam of bone shows through. But the majority of his attention is reserved for his brother: for Sam’s face, tinted red by the light and closed to him. If there’s some kind of emotion in those alien, gold eyes, Dean isn’t capable of reading it.

He’s seen his brother mutilate and torture hundreds of people, but somehow this one act has caught him by surprise. Sam had to know that cutting the yellow-eyed demon would hurt Dean. He just watched the demon _explain_ that in Dean’s memories, for christsakes: he just licked the evidence of the lesson clean from Dean’s skin.

But Sam’s eyes are flat. There’s no regret there, or worry, or anything that says he gives a damn that Dean is bleeding all over himself. There isn’t even a reassuring brush of power along the tattoo on Dean's back. Sam wept over Dean when he found him bleeding on the floor of the elevator, but there are no tears in his eyes now.

Dean looks at his brother and can’t tell which is his real face: the cruel, distant boy-king gazing back at him, or the man who kissed his fingertips, light as a hummingbird’s wings.

 _Come on, Sam,_ he thinks. _Give me a fucking sign here._

Sam's eyes slowly slide back to the demon.

The low pulse of disappointment in Dean's gut is almost lost amidst the dread cascading through his veins. He knows resolution when he sees it, and what's more, he recognizes the stubborn set to Sam's jaw. Dean is still bleeding, the pain hot and writhing in his cheek, and there's no way he's making it through the demon's punishment in one piece.

The yellow-eyed bastard who started all of this doesn't seem to care that the right shoulder of its shirt is soaked with blood. From the grin stretching its lips, it isn't bothered by the pain or worried about the expression on Sam's face.

Then again, it doesn't know Sam as well as Dean does.

“Oops,” it says. “Guess you forgot your little safeguard went two ways.”

“I didn’t forget.” Sam’s voice is a dead thing and Dean’s throat seizes up. Fuck, this is going to hurt.

The demon’s smile flickers like a light bulb on the verge of going out and then steadies. “Bluffing’s for poker and nuclear warfare, Sammy. We both know that you aren’t going to hurt me. Don’t want to mark up your pretty whore, do you?”

The TV doesn’t so much shatter as crumble to dust, and all of the lights explode in tiny showers of glass. The curtains suddenly fan out, as though caught by a strong wind, and behind them Dean can see the window buckling in its frame. The middle of the plate glass bulges impossibly outward like a distended stomach and then pops, spilling jagged shards down the side of the building.

For the first time, Dean can hear the fire. It isn't a whisper or a roar, but something louder: a sound that gets under his skin and into his bones and leaves him with the taste of charcoal in his mouth. There’s something wrong with the walls, too, and after grappling with the concept in his mind for a moment Dean has to admit that they’re _melting_ , oozing toward the floor like warm molasses.

The most terrifying part is that Dean is almost positive that Sam isn't doing any of this on purpose. No, this is … overflow. He starts to move—needs to get as far from ground zero as he can—and finds himself shoved back into the bed hard enough that the wind is knocked out of him for a few seconds.

 **I told you to stay there,** Sam’s voice snarls in his mind.

 _Can the damn theatrics, then,_ Dean thinks back, but his brother is already gone, taking the restraining power with him. Not that Dean is going to try anything after that show of force.

He concentrates on making himself as small and unnoticeable as he can. Funny, but his cheek doesn’t really hurt anymore. Looks like getting the shit scared out of you makes for a good anesthetic.

The yellow-eyed demon doesn’t seem to have noticed their conversation. It’s too busy looking around the room as reality tears itself apart. From the slight smile on its face, it doesn't find Sam's display unnerving. In fact, when the demon turns its attention back to Sam, it looks almost proud.

“Impressive,” it drawls. “Now why don’t you get out into the field and show me what you can _really_ do?”

Sam smiles and the temperature in the room drops about twenty degrees. Dean bites back a moan. There are mewling, crawling things in that smile; there are knives gone rust-colored with dried blood and the soft patter of someone’s insides spilling out onto the floor.

It’s the kind of smile that leads to people having their ribcages imbedded in the ceiling.

Dean isn’t sure that he believes in God, especially these days, but as his eyes slide shut, he sends out a brief prayer anyway. _Make it quick,_ he thinks. _And for fuck’s sake, let me pass out._

“Why wait?” his brother asks.

Dean tenses as the power in the room focuses, leaving the air so charged that he can feel the hair on the back of his arms rising. He’s never been a huge fan of pain, but this right here is what he hates the most: the anticipation. Knowing that the blade or the poker or the claw is descending and that he won’t be able to duck this time.

The flood of power is gone so abruptly that Dean makes a started twitch. There's a moment of stifling silence, colored by the roar of the flames outside, and then the demon starts to scream. It isn’t a human noise by any stretch of the imagination: more like the way that fire would sound, if it were capable of expressing agony.

Dean waits for the pain to arc through him as well and it doesn’t come. Okay, not that he’s complaining, but what the fuck? Opening his eyes, he lifts his head to find out what’s happening and then lets his breath out in a hiss.

There’s a small cloud floating in the middle of the room. It’s about a foot in diameter, radiating a sullen amber glow and flecked with lightning strikes of canary. It’s repulsive—turns his stomach just to look at it—but at the same time he's filled with an undeniable yearning. He's never seen anything so compelling, like a siren's song given form.

It takes conscious effort for Dean to look past the cloud and see the demon kneeling beneath it. The yellow-eyed bastard is staring up with an unfamiliar but instantly recognizable expression on its face: horror. It reaches up toward the cloud and Sam’s power shoves it back against the floor in an undignified sprawl.

“You can’t do this!” the demon rages, curling its fingers into the rug.

Sam’s smile has warmed a few degrees, and there’s no longer red sparking from his fingertips. “Looks pretty done from where I’m sitting,” he points out.

There’s an edge of weariness in his voice, as if whatever he just did took a great deal of effort, but when he pushes to his feet there's no sign of exhaustion. He moves with the same violent grace as always, taking two steps forward to stand before the cloud. As he runs his fingers through it, the demon makes a full-bodied, agonized shudder.

Dean realizes that he’s trembling himself. While he was busy staring at the cloud, an edgy pressure has built against his skin from the inside out. He figures that it’s some kind of backwash from the demon for all of five seconds, which is how long it takes for him to notice that Sam is staring at him while he toys with the cloud.

There’s a wicked tilt to his brother’s lips as he twists his fingers through the lightning, something familiar in the motion, something …

Dean gasps, dropping his thighs open and arching up. Oh God, Sam’s hand in the cloud feels like Sam’s hand inside of _Dean_ , sending shocky bursts of pleasure through him in time with every stroke. But it isn’t as simple as that, is it? No, not by a long shot, because this feeling isn’t just in his ass, it’s everywhere, like Sam’s found a way to stick his hand inside Dean’s fucking _soul_ , rubbing up along him, everything he is, everything he ever might be.

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean moans, unable to resist a single upward thrust of his hips.

Something dark stirs in Sam’s eyes at the sound of his voice, and his smirk widens. He starts toward the bed and the cloud trails after him obediently, little wisps sticking to his fingers as he moves. On the floor, the demon twists to follow Sam’s progress. From the agonized expression on its face, Dean can tell that it isn’t having the same reaction to Sam’s hand in that shimmering cloud.

“Don’t!” it pants. “You need me! He’ll turn on you; he’s a hunter, he’ll never be anything else—”

“Shut up,” Sam says mildly, and the demon chokes on the rest of whatever it was going to say.

“Sammy,” Dean says again as his brother sits next to him on the bed.

“Hey, man,” Sam murmurs. The cloud has caught up with him, thick and roiling around his raised left hand. “How’re you doing?”

He gives his fingers a small flick and Dean presses his head back against the pillows, swearing.

“Shh,” Sam whispers. He leans closer, keeping his hand and the cloud held out of the way, and drags his tongue along Dean’s cheek. Blood is smeared across his lips and chin when he lifts his head again, but Dean can feel the edges of his wound knitting back together. When Sam reaches out with his unoccupied hand to brush the unbroken skin with his fingertips, his forehead is creased in something that almost looks like guilt.

Or maybe the feel of Sam inside of him like this is making Dean delusional.

His eyes are drawn back to the cloud as his brother’s fingers give another twitch. He’s sweating, tension strung through him in a razor sharp line, and he has no fucking clue what’s going on here. Whatever Sam is planning, it's going to be bad.

“What—Sam, what are you doing, man?” he rasps. The cloud has begun to send little tendrils down toward Dean’s body like it's starving and can sense him there, all laid out like a banquet. He doesn’t want it to touch him. This close, the yellow of it looks noxious: like it’ll leave an oily, poisonous residue on whatever it touches.

One of those seeking tendrils is snaking down Sam's forearm, but he doesn't seem to notice. “Do you trust me?” he asks.

What the hell kind of response is that supposed to be? That’s not an answer. It isn’t even a question: it’s a goddamned minefield.

Dean wiped banana paste from Sam’s chin. He smeared iodine over the scrapes on the kid’s knees and palms when Sam was thirteen and going through an awkward, gangly phase. He used to finish his brother’s sentences, back before Stanford, when he was still naive enough to believe in the forevers that Sam whispered against his lips. Even after, when Jessica's ghost sat between them like a disapproving chaperone, that unspoken connection flared up almost immediately, drawing Dean back into his brother’s bed against his better judgment.

This is the lover who was once a boy fumbling with Dean’s zipper in a darkened movie theater. This is the partner who found Dean when a pissed off nixie left him wedged down a well, half-drowned and dizzy with the pain from his broken collarbone. This is the man he found at Stanford, so confident and self-assured that he had to duck his head to hide the pride in his eyes.

This is the brother he sold his soul for.

But now there are flames in Sam’s eyes, and this isn’t the first time Dean has seen someone else's blood on his brother’s face. He watched Sam shove his hands inside a little girl's stomach. Saw him rip out her insides, spilling intestines and the fresh smell of shit everywhere.

This is a man who is as distant and unassailable as Heaven, and just as impossible to comprehend. Demons bow before him; they cringe at the sound of his name. There’s madness in Sam now. It taints everything he does like a sickness, and Dean just doesn’t know him anymore. Can’t be sure what he’s capable of.

If he says yes, then it’s an admission that he still has feelings for Sam. It’s proof that he’s beginning to drown under the weight of his brother's unrelenting attentions, and he’s already offered too much of that.

If he says no, though, he’ll be lying. And Sam will know. He always does.

In the end, Dean decides that it’s safest to keep his mouth shut. Pressing his lips together, he waits for the moment to pass.

“It’s a simple question, Dean: yes or no?”

A warning thread of power curls along Dean’s back, disorienting amid the pleasure that's still shooting through him but not exactly painful. Not yet, anyway.

Goddamn it.

“No,” he bites out.

The smile slips from Sam’s face and the hand on Dean’s cheek stills. They regard each other for a long, awkward moment, and then Sam’s eyes narrow.

“Liar,” he whispers, and rests his upturned hand on Dean’s chest.

The cloud descends after, and Jesus now Dean really doesn’t want that thing touching him because he can _smell_ it: that ruffling sulfur scent almost hidden beneath the spice of cloves. As the first eager tendril reaches him, he finally understands just what the damned thing is made of.

Power.

The demon’s power, ripped from its body and given this temporary, nebulous form.

He sucks in a revolted breath as the cloud presses down along the sheet covering his body. His skin feels clammy and overheated at the same time, and his heart keeps giving funny jumps whenever the cloud sparks electricity.

Jesus Christ, what the hell is Sam doing?

Dean glances up at his brother, knowing that his eyes are frantic and not caring because this is really starting to freak him the fuck out and Sam can stop playing around any second now.

Except that the hand on Dean’s cheek slides down to cup his chin. Sam's lips curve up in a taunting smile.

“Open up, baby,” he says, and his fingers dig in to the corners of Dean’s jaw, forcing his mouth wide.

Dean sucks in a panicked, instinctive breath and instantly regrets it as the cloud funnels into his waiting mouth. His throat works, but either his gag reflex is broken or the demon's power isn't substantial enough to trigger it and he can't work up any resistance. The invasion seems endless: one long slide down his throat until the cloud isn’t a cloud anymore but a sullen warmth in his stomach.

Sam finally releases his jaw and Dean coughs, that cloying mixture of cloves and sulfur strong on his tongue. A second later he winces as a cramp rips through his abdomen: the warmth flexing inside him, trying to push outwards. He can feel it contaminating everything that it’s touching, can feel it seeping through the walls of his stomach and into his cells and deeper still, until it's lapping at the edges of his soul.

 _No_.

Dean shakes his head in denial, as if that’s gonna do anything, and rages against the sickening warmth. He isn’t going to let the fucking thing take him without a fight.

Distracted by his internal struggle, it takes him a while to realize that there's a soft pulse of power coming from the weight of his brother's hand on his chest. It doesn’t take a huge intuitive leap to realize that Sam is encouraging this: that Sam is still controlling the cloud’s movements, trying to fill him with it.

Dean’s hands come up and grasp his brother’s wrist. He strains to pull Sam's hand away. “No,” he grunts.

Mouth twisting with determination, Sam presses down hard enough that Dean has to struggle for his next breath. “This is happening, Dean. Accept it.”

“Fuck you.” It’s barely a whisper because this is starting to hurt. The warmth is an unbearable fullness in his stomach: a pressure that rises until Dean’s sure he’s going to rupture at any moment.

“Stop fighting me,” Sam growls.

Roll over and spread, is what he means. He won’t force Dean to spread his legs, but has absolutely no compunctions about reaching inside of him and spreading his soul wide open. And Dean knows that whatever he’s got left in that department is looking pretty shabby these days—wasn’t all that hot to begin with—but it’s still his, damn it. His mind, his heart, his will, and Sam is trying to strip away his flimsy protections and shove something filthy and bloated inside.

It isn’t sex, but it’s rape all that same. It’s worse.

Dean feels his mind trying to take that side trip down the rabbit hole again and this time he cuts himself off at the pass instead of waiting for Sam to do it. As nice of an escape as insanity would be, he isn’t going to check out and let Sam violate him like this.

Sam, his brother. Sam, who Dean would have died for, would have gone to Hell for. Sam, who brought Hell to him instead and won’t take Dean’s body without his consent but has absolutely no problem taking everything else.

Dean has no idea where his brother’s head is at for him to be thinking like this—doesn’t really want to know. The sheer absurdity of it makes him laugh through his bared teeth.

Sam gives a frustrated huff at the sound and lifts his hand from Dean’s chest to toss the sheet down, baring Dean to the waist. Dean immediately throws himself to the left, trying to roll across the bed and off the other side.

He knows he has nowhere to run, but he’s gonna give it his best shot anyway. He’ll ride the agony in his back all the way down to the lobby if it’ll get him out of this: if it’ll give him time to vomit up everything Sam just shoved inside him.

The heavy warmth in his stomach makes him clumsy, though, while Sam is faster than ever these days. Dean has barely moved when his brother's hand locks around his arm and yanks. He makes a despairing noise as he’s flipped over onto his back again, and then Sam’s right palm slams down over his heart. Something like an electrical jolt snaps through Dean at the contact, the call pulsing through his body stronger than ever with nothing between Sam’s skin and his.

“No!” he yells.

Sam’s eyes are molten. Sam’s smile is a flicker of fire. Sam’s hand feels like it’s sinking into his chest, shoving aside flesh and bone and making itself at home.

Inside of Dean, the warmth of the demon’s power moves slowly but inevitably. Rolling like a fog bank through his insides, it leaves clinging drops on every cell. Changing him. Charging his body with energy that wants to burn and sear and destroy.

The power is filling him now, sizzling under his skin. It’s just a hairsbreadth out of focus with him, like a blurred photograph. Dean can feel the edges trying to sharpen, though, as Sam and the demon's power both push for that final merge, and he's shaking wildly with the effort of holding it off. Sweat pours off of his skin, running down his throat in rivulets to pool in the dip of his collarbone.

“Just relax,” Sam orders.

Dean can’t waste time responding. Even the small effort needed to form words might tip the balance, and he doesn’t want this.

Not now.

Not ever.

“Stubborn, Dean,” Sam’s voice comes again, rueful and a little amused.

 _Not good not good_. Dean heaves in another breath, doing his best to block out everything but the unbearable tension inside of him.

Oh God, inside of his fucking _soul._

“But there’s really no point in trying.” Sam's hand flexes on Dean’s chest, nails scraping across his skin—across his nipple—and his focus slips.

The power snaps into place with a physical jolt that bucks his body up against his brother’s hand and then back down into the mattress. There’s a roaring in his mind suddenly, like a million whispering voices. A soft, red glow suffuses his vision and there's warmth along his skin, the taste of smoke in his mouth.

It’s the fire, he realizes: the firestorm outside calling in to the power that began it. The power that is now wholly and irrevocably a part of Dean.

He turns over, Sam’s hand no longer restraining him, and his stomach lurches like it’s trying to climb out of his mouth. Eyes squeezed shut, he hangs over the side of the bed and lets the dry heaves wrack his body. Sam’s hand is a point of heat at the base of his spine, rubbing gentle circles. His brother's voice floats around him, murmuring reassuring nonsense that Dean can’t make out through the deafening call of the flames.

As his body starts to come down, he finds that he can block the sound out with a little effort. It’s a matter of concentrating on ice and snow and the soothing fall of rain and everything that fire isn’t. He can still feel it inside of him ( _contaminated, soiled, fucking filthy_ ) but it’s easier to lock down on it now. Easier to shove that warmth into the back of his mind, where it casts a gold glow over his thoughts. It’s still making him sick, but least he can see straight again.

He lays there, naked, with the taste of sulfur in his mouth and Sam’s hand dangerously close to his ass and can’t stop himself from thinking of Dad. Of what John would say if he could see his sons now, the look of disgusted disappointment on his face, and suddenly he’s crying. Lilith and the yellow-eyed demon are watching, Sam is _right there_ , and Dean can’t stop himself.

“You son of a bitch,” he sobs.

“I have to keep you safe,” Sam says, so softly that Dean almost doesn’t catch it. His hand ghosts across the curve of Dean’s ass and then lifts. When he speaks again, his voice is harder. “Get cleaned up and then put some clothes on. Something nice.”

Dean grips the edge of the bed and stares at the rug through his tears. The power is eager inside of him, and vile. He feels stained.

Defiled.

“Did that sound like a request?” Sam prods, a warning bite to his tone.

“Nothing ever does these days,” Dean mumbles. He gets out of the bed, though, moving mostly on autopilot.

If he doesn’t think about it, he won’t have to deal with it. If he doesn’t have to deal with it, he can maybe make it through today without losing it and setting the suite on fire. Sam’s already done enough damage to the place with his temper tantrum, and Dean has to live here. If you can call this living.

He hesitates next to the bed for a moment and then grabs the sheet and wraps it around his waist. It seems like a futile effort after what just happened, but he already feels exposed enough without prancing around naked.

“Leave the door open,” Sam adds as Dean heads over to the bathroom.

Dean scrubs his free hand over his face—slide of drying blood and sweat—and bites his lip to stave off a hysterical burst of laughter. Great, now he’s on suicide watch.

Not that Sam's instincts are wrong.

If Dean thought he could get away with it, he’d smash the mirror and use the shards to slit his throat. Of course, there's no way that he’d manage to bleed out before Sam got to him, and there’s Bobby to think about. Ellen. Jo. Deacon. The kids Sam threatened if Dean ever got any bright ideas about his skin and sharp implements again.

Trapped. Trapped like a goddamned rat in a locked room with the water rising.

Dean delays looking into the mirror as long as he can; he’s terrified of what he’ll find looking back this time. When he finally raises his head, though, looking for any traces of blood that he missed, his eyes are as green as they ever were. Cautiously, he probes at the warmth at the back of his mind and sees an answering yellow flicker in his irises.

Fanfuckingtastic.

When he finally emerges from the bathroom, he carefully keeps his eyes on the floor. Clothes, Sam said. Dean can do clothes. Hell, he could do with a few hundred pounds of fabric between his body and the demons’ prying gazes. _Sam’s_ prying gaze.

“—do this,” the yellow-eyed demon insists as Dean edges past.

“Well then, I guess it isn’t happening.” Sam’s voice is bland, but Dean can tell without looking that his brother is grinning.

He considers going for his sweats again, but Sam said ‘nice’ and he’s pretty sure they aren't going to cut it. Instead, he heads over for the oversized wardrobe. Tries not to notice the way that the melted wall has partially engulfed the mahogany wood.

“We can work something out,” the demon wheedles. “Dean’s off limits, okay, I get it, but you need me, Sam.”

“Oh really,” Sam says. “Last time I checked, you were the one crawling around after me, Azazel. You and your ‘army’. Well, I’m stronger than you now, and I’m a better general than you ever would have been.”

“So this rout is really a tactical ploy to make us look vulnerable, is that what you're saying? Because I think they got the idea after we lost the first five states."

Dean pulls open the wardrobe doors with a little effort—Sam’s display warped the wood—and reaches inside. Brushes his fingers over a line of fabric until he feels the rough texture of denim and then pulls a pair of tailored jeans out. They’re not as comfortable as the ones he used to wear, but at least this way he still has the illusion of freedom. And they're a hell of a lot better than the monkey suits Sam has hanging up in there 'for special occasions'.

Like Dean's ever getting out of here.

Like there's anywhere special left for Sam to take him to even if he did.

As he fishes a pair of underwear out of a drawer, Dean wonders idly whether Sam saved any of the MET when he was out. Not that he really gives a damn anymore. It's just something neutral to think about.

“It’s a minor setback," Sam says behind him. "I'll take care of it.”

“How?” the demon demands. “You don’t really think they’ll follow you without me by your side? A _human_?”

Dean drops the sheet and starts pulling on his underwear.

“Half human,” Sam corrects. “You should know, since you were there for the ritual.”

“Semantics. You didn’t Fall, and you weren’t born Below. They won’t accept you on your own.”

Okay, pants.

“They don’t have a choice.” Sam’s voice is icy enough to freeze fire.

Even though he’s not really paying attention to the conversation, Dean shivers.

“You really think you can take on the legions of Hell by yourself? You think you can call Dis to heel?” The demon chuckles. “You’re not that strong, Sammy.”

“I think I’d rather try than leave you at my back.”

Dean buttons his jeans closed and then starts fumbling through the wardrobe for a shirt. Behind him, the demon tries a new line of argument.

“If you leave me like this,” it warns, “They’ll tear me apart within a day. Slow and messy. You want Dean dead that badly, you could always do it yourself.”

“I know,” Sam agrees. “That’s why I’m going to put you somewhere safe. Don’t want to tempt anyone you’ve pissed off over the years. Not that one, the blue.”

It takes Dean a few moments to realize that last bit was directed at him. He looks down at the shirt he’s holding in his hands—soft and grey and the second loosest thing he’s got next to the discarded t-shirt at the base of the bed—and then chances a glance at his brother.

Sam is standing in the middle of the room and watching Dean. From its position at Sam's feet, so is the yellow-eyed demon.

He’s struck with the certainty that the two of them have been staring at him the entire time, each wearing identical, hungry expressions. He's pretty sure it isn't his body that the yellow-eyed son of a bitch is after, though. Well, if it wants its power back so damned much, then as far as Dean's concerned, it can have it.

Sam's eyes flash impatiently and Dean turns away, dropping the shirt he's holding on the floor and rummaging through the wardrobe for the one Sam wants: a long sleeved, silk button down tapered to hug Dean’s torso. Persian blue, Sam calls the color. Says it brings out Dean’s freckles.

“I can’t kill you,” Sam continues when Dean finds the shirt and starts pulling it on. “But I knew it would come down to this before I brought you back. You’re too used to being top dog. Come here, Dean.”

The last thing Dean wants to do right now is get close enough for Sam to touch him, but it isn’t like he has much of a choice. He walks toward his brother slowly, still trying to scrape together enough coordination to do up his buttons. When he gets close enough, Sam bats his fingers away and takes over, working from the bottom up and then smoothing his hands down Dean’s chest. The warmth inside of Dean’s mind gives a happy pulse and he clenches his jaw.

“Beautiful,” Sam whispers, and lays a gentle kiss on Dean’s cheek.

Flushed with embarrassment, Dean stares at the misshapen walls of the suite as he's pulled in and turned around. Sam presses up against his back, dropping his arms around Dean's stomach to hold him close, and Dean can feel the demon’s eyes on him.

So much hunger.

“I’ll kill myself if you don’t give it back,” the demon threatens.

“No, you won’t. You’re not going to be doing much of anything anymore.” Sam nuzzles Dean’s neck and then rests his head on his shoulder. “There’s a box in Hell with your name on it, Azazel. Custom carved from blessed ash, with a devil’s trap on each side. I gave the carpenter the measurements myself. It’s just big enough for you to lie still as a mouse and think about how you fucked up your second chance.”

There’s a sharp, startled intake of breath. “You wouldn’t _dare_.”

Sam shifts his head to lean his cheek against Dean’s. His fingers stroke Dean’s stomach over the soft fabric of the shirt.

“Not many people get to admire the workmanship of their own coffin,” he muses. “But I’m sure the novelty will wear off in a few decades.”

“For what?” the demon snarls, panicked. “For offering you what you want? What _he_ wants? Because he does want you, the whore. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”

“Call him that one more time and I’ll cut your tongue out first.”

It’s said simply, not a threat or a warning but a statement of fact. Dean wonders what it would feel like to have a blade sliding through that sensitive flesh: to feel his severed tongue dropping heavy into the mouth like a chunk of meat. He can’t help looking down at the demon’s lips, imagining what they would look like covered with blood. What his own would look like. All of the moisture in his mouth has dried up and his body gives an involuntary shudder.

Sam tightens his grip and kisses Dean’s hair. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll drug up you first; heal you afterwards. You won’t feel a thing.”

The demon’s face is empty as it looks up at them. “This won’t hold me. Not forever.”

“Maybe not,” Sam admits. “But it’ll do for a few centuries at least, and by then I’m sure I’ll have figured out how to bleed you dry without hurting Dean.”

“You’ll regret this,” the demon snarls. It’s such a cliché thing to say at a time like this, and Dean kind of wants to laugh. Then he meets the demon’s furious, hateful eyes and it really doesn’t seem all that funny anymore.

“I really don’t think so,” Sam says.

His power rises, a whirlwind of heat that pulls an answering throb from the warmth in Dean’s mind, and then swirls forward into the demon. Its body flakes under the onslaught, as though it was never really flesh in the first place, but only colored dust. The particles darken as they swirl in the air, shading from grey to black and forming a miniature tornado in the center of the room.

It doesn't take long—maybe ten seconds all told—and then a second, stronger pulse of energy sends the tornado funneling out the smashed window and the demon is gone.

 _It's over,_ Dean thinks. Then the glowing warmth at the back of his mind gives a restless pulse. It's an obscene reminder that not all of Azazel blew out the window with its body, and just like that he's teetering on the edge of a breakdown again.

He's tainted, he's impure, he's got damnation twisted through his soul like blood. Wasn't strong enough, fast enough, smart enough, _good_ enough to stop it. Polluted. Desecrated.

“Shh, baby,” Sam murmurs. “It’s over. He’s gone. Just you and me, okay? Okay, Dean?”

 _Just you and me and this thing you shoved in my soul, you mean,_ Dean wants to shout, but Sam's power brushes through him and smoothes away the ragged edges of panic.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath to center himself, Dean whispers, “Yeah, okay.”

“Good.” Sam kisses his cheek again and then reluctantly slides his hands free. “Go sit on the couch.”

There’s no point in arguing, and Dean is still having trouble feeling anything but unclean inside, so he goes. He doesn’t remember that Lilith is still standing in the doorway, waiting for her own turn, until he drops down onto the cushions and catches sight of her. Her eyes are wide: her gaze alternating between the two of them.

Dean’s own eyes slide to Sam as his brother offers a soft, dangerous smile and says, “Now would be a good time to start begging.”


	4. Chapter 4

Lilith sinks to her knees and bows her head. Her hair curtains her face, parting to bare a vulnerable swath of neck.

“I was only following orders,” she says. “Azazel is—was—stronger than me. I couldn't refuse him.”

Sam's smile widens. “More.”

Lilith's breath gives a frightened little stutter and then she whispers, “Please, my lord. If I had known it would displease you, I would never have—”

Sam’s power flares out and Lilith’s voice cuts off on a cry. Her body jerks as though she’s been whipped, and when she glances up a moment later, a thin red line mars her pale cheek.

“I know that lying is second nature for you,” Sam says. “But you really want to rethink the way you're going about this whole begging thing."

Lilith bends her borrowed body lower, prostrating herself. All of that shining hair spreads out on the floor in a halo that drips red in the firelight. “Please,” she begs. “Let me make amends.”

“Amends,” Sam repeats. He tilts his head to one side, considering. “For what?”

Lilith's shoulders tense. Her desperation is turning the air sour. As the silence stretches out, it becomes obvious that she's trying to come up with an answer that won't set Sam off. Dean wishes her the same luck he always has with that.

Finally, after Sam makes an impatient grunt, she offers, "For baiting Azazel's hook."

Dean is taken aback by the speed with which his brother moves, striding across the carpet to crouch in front of Lilith. The hand Sam slides past the curtain of her hair is deceptively gentle, and she makes a small, frightened noise as he touches her. When he lifts her head, there's a threat of violence in the way his fingers slide across the cut on her cheek.

“You’re missing the point,” he tells her. “You followed Azazel’s orders: fine. I can’t fault you for being a good soldier. But you touched him.”

Sam’s grip tightens, violence unveiling. His fingers dig into the cut and draw a fresh trickle of blood. Lilith winces, staring up at him with wide, panicked eyes that are bleeding to black. With that oily shine to her gaze, it's impossible to see her as anything other than a demon—as the bitch who had her way with him up against the wall—but Dean almost feels sorry for her anyway.

Oh Christ, he doesn't want to watch this and yet he can't make himself look away. He'd say it was Sam's doing, but he doesn't feel the brush of his brother's power, which means this one is all Dean. Just the same morbid fascination that makes people slow down and crane their necks as they drive by fatal collisions.

“You kissed him,” Sam continues. His voice is husky with rage, low and rough enough that it sends vibrations down Dean's back.

“I’ve slit throats for less.”

Sam’s other hand slides up over Lilith’s face, his pointer and middle fingers pressing against her eyelids.

“I’ve blinded women for looking at him—I’ve seared the flesh from their bones for wanting him—and you think I’m upset about a little _deception_?”

She hangs in his hands like a doll. “Please! I didn’t—I couldn’t help myself, I—”

“Shh,” Sam soothes. “Shh, I know. I know he’s pretty. He burns so bright, doesn’t he? Just like a star.”

He sounds understanding, almost kind, but it’s a lie. Dean can see his brother's true face lurking beneath the false sympathy: the rage in Sam's burning eyes. Sam smiles and it's nothing more than a baring of teeth.

“But you need to learn a little self control. If I can keep my cock out of him, you can keep your fucking hands off what’s mine.”

He isn't so much speaking anymore as growling, and then mask falls away completely as his power lashes out. Lilith makes a high, keening sound and squirms in his grasp.

“Sorry, so sorry! Never again, won’t, I promise, I swear by Lucifer I’ll cut my own hand off before I touch him, I won’t, please—”

The nettling edge of Sam’s power blunts and he lays a soft kiss on her forehead. Releasing her face, he stands and strides over to drop down on the couch next to Dean. Dean starts to shift away without thinking about it and a disapproving flare of power slides over his back.

As he hesitates, his brother's arm drops down around his shoulders. Sam draws Dean in so that he's pressed against his side: one long line of heat. He hums softly to himself as he runs his fingers along Dean’s upper arm.

Over by the door, Lilith is a sobbing mess on the carpet. There aren't any outward signs of what Sam just did to her, but Dean's well aware of how much pain his brother can inflict without doing any damage.

It’s weird, watching a demon cry.

Her shoulders are hunched and shaking; the hands hiding her face tremble. Dean feels another pang of sympathy. It's too strong to brush off this time and he wonders if whether he feels this way because constant exposure to Sam is warping his reactions or because the demon's power is coiled inside of him. Hell, maybe she just looks human enough—frail enough—that his heart is having trouble making the distinction.

As unexpected as the emotion is, though, he isn't really disturbed by it. Feeling pity for a demon just isn’t all that high up on the list of fucked up things that have happened to him today.

Dean gradually becomes aware of a prickling sensation across the back of his neck: that feeling of being watched. Glancing sideways, he finds his brother scowling at him, brows drawn together and mouth set in a thin, tight line.

Sam covers the expression almost immediately, but not quickly enough that Dean doesn't know he's just signed up for his own share of his brother's wrath. His heart speeds. Casting his mind back over the last few minutes, he tries to figure out where he stepped out of line. Was it when he pulled away when Sam sat down? But Sam was humming after that: didn't seemed bothered.

Shit, Dean really doesn’t want Sam angry with him right now. Not when his brother is already out of his mind with rage. He drops his eyes and digs his fingers into his thigh. Does his best to keep quiet and small and prays that Sam will get so wrapped up in Lilith that he'll forget whatever Dean did wrong.

It seems like it takes hours for Lilith's tears to dry up, but Dean's aware that his grasp of time goes a little wonky whenever Sam's around, so his estimate is probably off. Her face is blotchy when she chances a look up, but she's no less beautiful for it. And her eyes look normal again, which is a huge plus.

“I’m not gonna kill you, Lil,” Sam announces. “Might need your special talents someday, right?”

The relief that flashes onto her face is painful to look at. Either she can't feel the hostile tension that's turning Dean's stomach, or she's desperate enough to ignore it.

“My lord is merciful,” Lilith breathes, and then, after a few tentative false starts, she pushes herself to her feet. The curtsy she offers Sam is decidedly lopsided, and she stumbles when she turns to leave.

Her hand is actually brushing the door frame when Sam’s voice rings out, “I haven’t dismissed you.”

Dean is tempted to bury his face in his brother’s neck like a little kid. He doesn’t want to see what’s about to happen. Lilith is a bitch, sure, but that doesn’t mean Dean wants to watch the warped walls of the suite being painted the new and interesting colors of her insides.

And then there's the fact that it won't just be Lilith being tortured. Like the rest of Sam's followers, she's a demon wearing a stolen body. That's someone's daughter in there. Someone's mother, maybe. Or a sister.

In a few hours, she'll be a pile of meat.

Sam stiffens next to Dean and his restless hand stills. The arm slung around Dean's shoulders is radiating a level of hostility that he can't ignore, cutting short any thought of actually indulging his momentary need for comfort.

He doesn't know why he thought he could turn to Sam for that anyway. After what his brother just did to him, the very idea is laughable.

Lilith’s face is carefully blank as she turns back, but there’s dread simmering in her eyes. For a few moments, it isn’t pity but envy that tightens Dean’s chest.

For Lilith, this nightmare is about to be over. Sure, it'll take a few hours, but then it’ll be done and she’ll be dead.

Dean will still be here with his brother.

Sam’s hand starts moving on Dean’s arm again: soft little touches that send shivers through his skin and rouse the warmth of the demon’s power. It’s intoxicating, almost like being drunk, and he hates it. Hates himself for letting Sam—the power—both, maybe—affect him this way.

“Apologize to Dean,” Sam orders lazily.

Lilith goes him one better, dropping a low curtsy in Dean’s direction. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, and it’s obvious that she’s telling the truth. Is probably regretting that she ever laid eyes on him in the first place.

“I don’t know,” Sam drawls. “That sounded a little insincere to me. What do you think, man?”

What Dean thinks is that he’d like Sam to leave him out of this so he can go have a breakdown in the bathroom. Maybe just … stop thinking for a while. Not that Sam would let him.

He shifts uneasily. “Just let it go, okay?”

Sam cups Dean’s chin with his left hand and drags his face around. This close, close enough that Dean can see every golden fleck in his brother’s irises, there’s no way he can miss the flicker of amusement that crosses Sam’s face. It’s the way Dean thinks a cat might look at a mouse, if it were capable of deliberate cruelty. His stomach sinks.

“Sure. I’ll let it go.” Sam inches closer, his breath warm against Dean’s lips. Dean tries to pull his head back but Sam’s hand is on his chin, anchoring him.

“It’s just a kiss, Dean.” Sam’s mouth quirks into something vindictive. “A kiss of forgiveness.”

There’s nothing forgiving about the way that Sam kisses him. It’s all fire and anger, bitten lips and Sam’s fingers digging into his skin. It’s Sam’s tongue fucking into him and Sam’s power flooding his mouth with something warm and heavy and vile. For what feels like the hundredth time this morning, Dean wants to throw up and can’t because Sam is there, Sam’s power is locking his throat muscles and holding everything down.

He brings his hands up and shoves at his brother’s chest. Sam chuckles through the kiss, letting his full weight drop against Dean's side. Giving up on that tactic, Dean fists his brother's hair and tries to pull Sam off that way. He doesn’t get anything for his trouble but Sam’s hand underneath his shirt and on his back. Sam’s touch igniting the lines of the tattoo and the warmth in Dean’s mind and driving the fight out of him.

It’s so good—Sam's kiss, Sam’s hands on his skin, Sam’s desire eating away at his soul—and Jesus it’s terrifying to be _wanted_ so much by any one person. There’s as much desperation as anger in the way Sam is kissing him, as much need as malice. As fucked up as it is, if it weren’t for his brother’s power clogging his mouth and throat, Dean’s pretty sure that he’d be giving as good as he’s getting.

He does his best to stay docile, letting Sam take what he wants. It’s not like it matters much anymore, anyway. Not after Sam jerked him off less than half an hour ago. Not after Sam shoved a demon's essence inside Dean’s soul and forced him to swallow.

It feels like a long time before Sam is finally done with him. Dean is dizzy when his brother’s mouth lifts from his. Even then, he can still taste Sam; Sam’s power clings to his tongue and lips like oil.

Sam's tongue flickers out across his own lips, tasting them. Tasting Dean. Trailing his eyes across Dean's face, he says, “Come get your forgiveness, Lil.”

“W-what?”

Dean can hear the confusion in Lilith's voice, and he knows that her face would be wary if he could manage to tear his eyes away from his brother. But Sam's irises are so bright with anger that they look molten, and it's mesmerizing. His gaze is suggesting things that Dean’s pretty sure he doesn’t want, especially not when Sam's power is stuffed in his mouth like a wad of cotton candy, melting and sticking in his throat.

“I want you to come over here and kiss my brother,” Sam clarifies. “Just like you kissed him before. I want to see you taste him.”

The silence that fills the room at that announcement is so thick that Dean can hear his heartbeat pounding in his head. Even the fire's roar seems to have softened. He wants to shatter the quiet into a thousand pieces so that he doesn't have to listen to the frantic speed of his pulse, but he can’t speak around Sam's power. With the mood that Sam is in, he’s lucky his brother is letting him breathe.

After a moment, Sam asks, “You waiting for an engraved invitation?”

“I—I don’t—”

“What’s wrong?” Sam interrupts. His eyes are still on Dean, the flimsy veil of serenity on his face rapidly fraying. “You did it before, right? You put your hands—your _mouth_ —on him when I wasn’t here.”

He finally releases Dean’s eyes and turns his head to look at Lilith.

“Is that the problem? Are you having a little performance anxiety with me watching?”

 _Stop,_ Dean wants to say, and, _Don’t._ He attempts to force the words out through the restraining pressure of his brother’s power and can’t make his throat work.

“Please, Samuel,” Lilith tries. “I said I—”

“ _Now._ ” The word rolls through the room, almost made physical by the pulse of power behind it, and before it has died, Dean feels a current of air shift in front of him. He can see Lilith out of the corner of his eye. The promise of burnt cinnamon tickles his tongue.

“Make it good,” Sam warns.

Lilith lets out a shuddering sigh and then goes to her knees between Dean’s legs. Her hands brush against his thighs and then travel upwards, skimming over his hips and lower stomach before coming to rest lightly on his chest. Her body presses closer and, even though she isn’t actively trying this time, her power is sending out all the right signals. Arousal flares in Dean’s gut and he lets his legs fall open wider, lets her body slide snugly into the space between them.

“That’s it,” Sam whispers in his ear, encouraging.

The thought that Sam is so close, that Sam’s hand is still pressed against the small of his back, that Sam is _watching_ , would make Dean moan if his mouth wasn’t so full. They’ve never done anything like this: whatever was between them was always too private—too complicated—to share. Too illegal, when you really come down to it. They aren’t really doing it now, either, of course. This isn’t a threesome: it’s a lesson.

It’s difficult to remember that, though. Difficult to remember that he doesn’t even want this, his thoughts muddled by the overflow of Lilith’s power and the muted, golden glow inside his own mind.

When her hands find his cheeks, Dean opens eyes that he doesn't remember closing. She tilts his face toward hers and there’s abject terror in her eyes. A mute plea for him to stop this, as if he has any control over what his brother does. The power filling his mouth shifts in readiness and dread lurches through his stomach.

It should kill whatever pleasure he’s getting out of this, but Lilith’s power is still lapping up against him and he can’t concentrate. The threat of Sam’s power—the fear of whatever he’s planning—falls away and leaves Dean with nothing but the warm press of her body against his groin. The brush of her hair against his chest.

Oh fuck, her _lips_.

Lilith licks them, a nervous gesture, and Dean’s breath hitches. Flesh that was already dark burgundy shimmers with a deeper sheen. It doesn’t help that he remembers how those lips feel: silken and plush and everything he likes in a woman’s mouth.

The last time she touched him like this was a violation, but something has shifted since then. The thought that the change is Sam’s presence, hot against his side and impossible to ignore, flits through Dean’s mind and is immediately rejected. That would mean that there’s a part of him that still feels safe with his brother, and that just isn’t possible. Not anymore. It’s simpler to blame this on the demon’s corruptive power, leaking golden warmth all over his soul.

Whatever the cause, this time Dean welcomes the press of Lilith’s power. It feels good: like a cool splash of water over fevered lips. It’s such a goddamned relief to feel some uncomplicated lust for a change, and with someone who is not only not his _brother_ but also female.

It’s been over a year since Dean has had the leisure _(and, let’s face it, the inclination)_ to play around on that side of the fence. He and Sam were never exclusive Before, of course: Sam never asked for that, and Dean was never sure he wanted it himself. This thing with Sam was too huge—too overwhelming—not to be able to take a break from it every once in a while. But over those frantic months that were supposed to be Dean’s last, something changed.

Sam’s eyes were wounded whenever Dean stumbled home the next morning, smelling of perfume and alcohol and smoke. The unhappy slope of his shoulders was a reproach. After a while, Dean got tired of soothing the hurt away. It wasn’t like he wasn’t getting any at home and, well, it was just easier.

And Dean wasn’t really in the mood during the few weeks he was away from Sam after that night in the graveyard.

Now there’s a beautiful woman pressed up between his legs, and if he lets her power roll him under, Dean can pretend that there isn’t a demon in there. He can let go for once.

“Come on.” It’s Sam’s voice, dim beneath the crush of Lilith’s power.

Sam. Something about Sam and the fullness in Dean’s mouth and throat. There’s a moment of confusion and then Sam’s hand gives an insistent push at the base of Dean’s spine and he tips forward.

He collides with Lilith’s mouth and immediately thrusts his tongue past her lips. All the frustrated need of these last few months funnels into this kiss, this moment, and it’s almost feral in its ferocity. His hands find her waist, thumbs digging into her hips as he jerks her closer.

She’s giving into it too, the fear draining from her muscles as the expected punishment continues not to come. Her hands claw at his chest, nails raking his nipples through the thin shirt. Biting his way deeper into her mouth, Dean shifts his hands lower to cup her ass.

Lilith writhes against him, all lithe, smooth curves, and it’s jarring. She should be broader; there should be lean muscle underneath her clothes. Should be a hard cock grinding against his own erection: huge hands cradling his face.

Distantly, Dean wonders when exactly his brother managed to condition him so that anything that isn’t Sam feels wrong, and then teeth close on his earlobe. Sam gives the lobe a brief, firm tug, and it sends a jagged spike of pleasure straight to Dean’s dick. The bitter taint of burnt cinnamon is gone from his mouth instantly, replaced by the salty warmth he associates with his brother’s skin.

Dean's back arches. He aches with the need to pull free from Lilith, to turn his head to the side and catch the lips he should be kissing.

 _Sammy._

Sam’s tongue traces the shell of his ear. His breath is moist and warm: his whisper deafening. “Give her my forgiveness, Dean.”

Dean moans at the hunger in his brother’s voice, and this time the muscles in his throat unlock to let the vibrations through. They slow in his mouth, congealing with Sam’s power, and oh _fuck_. He’s been so busy losing himself in this temporary relief that he somehow managed to forget about the cloying fullness and now it’s oozing forward, slipping from his mouth into Lilith’s.

Going rigid, she tries to pull away. The thread of Sam’s power strengthens, locking their mouths together.

As his brother's ‘forgiveness’ pours out of him, Dean stops working at the kiss. Lilith’s power is still beating at his skin, but the taste of burnt cinnamon has been permanently chased from his tongue. He wishes it were still dragging him under.

Then he wouldn’t be so aware of the way her lips are softening under his, turning into sacks of liquid trapped beneath a thin layer of skin. Lilith’s ass goes spongy beneath his palms; her hands feel moist on his chest. The too-sweet odor of decay fills his nostrils and revulsion shudders in his gut.

As the last of Sam’s power trickles from his mouth, Dean wrenches free from the kiss and shoves Lilith backwards. She topples onto the floor, lands on her ass with a sickening squelch, and starts to scream hysterically.

Dean’s not far off from that point himself, now that he’s getting a good look at what has happened to her.

The soft lips that he was admiring only a few moments ago have turned green, swollen and furred with mold. The flesh of her lower jaw is blackened and sagging, and the decay continues down her neck beneath the dress, which is wet and sticking to her in places. There are open sores on her arms, leaking a thin, yellow pus. As she gives a particularly shrill cry, one of her eyes pops and a squirming rain of maggots dribble out.

Oh Christ, she’s rotting from the inside out and she’s _still alive._

Sam is laughing next to him. Sam is fucking _guffawing_ like this is the funniest thing he’s ever seen.

 _He did that,_ Dean thinks, and then, with an even greater lurch: _I_ kissed _that._

He shoves Sam away and scrambles to his feet. There’s nausea crawling through him as he sprints toward the bathroom, and this time he’s really gonna hurl, fuck he _has_ to, and then the door slams shut in his face. Furious with the need to be on the other side of that wood, where the sound of Lilith’s shrieking will be muffled if not inaudible, Dean yanks at the handle.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters. His hands are slick with sweat _(oh God please let it just be sweat)_ and he can’t get a good grip. Then Sam is there, grabbing Dean’s arm and spinning him around.

“Goddamn it!” Dean shouts, kicking out blindly.

Sam blocks the kick with his knee and drops his body closer, trapping Dean against the door where he can’t get the leverage to attack. His mouth is pulled back in a wide grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What’s wrong, baby? Thought you were enjoying that.” Before Dean can get his wits together enough to come up with a response, Sam glances over his shoulder and snarls, “Shut the fuck up!”

Lilith’s screams cut off with a startling abruptness and Sam’s head swivels back around to Dean. There’s a calculating gleam in his eyes as he searches Dean’s face, like he’s waiting for him to say something. Dean's too busy trying to force his stomach back into his belly where it belongs to respond, though. His breath is coming so quickly he's getting light-headed: too shallow, not enough air.

After a moment, Sam sneers, “What? You aren’t gonna beg for your slut’s life?”

Realization hits Dean with an almost physical jolt, knocking him out of his panic. Sam isn’t angry with Dean. He’s _jealous_.

Dean remembers wondering what he did to piss his brother off and doesn’t know how he could have been so blind. Sam must have read Dean’s pity for Lilith in his mind, seen it on his face, _something_. And he mistook the emotion for something else entirely because, of course, this new Sam doesn’t understand the concept of compassion.

This horror show isn’t just Lilith’s punishment: it’s _Dean’s_. Sam could have done … _that_ … to her with a look. The kiss was ... economical. Two birds with one stone.

How practical of him.

“You sick fuck,” Dean breathes.

Sam’s smile sharpens. “I don’t share, Dean. You’d better remember that.”

Frustrated rage swells inside of Dean’s chest. He wants to wipe that selfish, triumphant look off of his brother’s face. Wants to get Sam’s body off of his: out of his space.

Any other time, he’d be freaked out by how instinctual it is to reach for the warm, golden glow in his mind. Right now, though, he’s angry enough that he doesn’t see it as anything other than a weapon Sam has unwittingly given him. Gripping the power is like sticking his hands into a fire and holding them there, but he ignores the flare of agony in his head and concentrates on pushing his brother away.

The press of Sam’s body lessens for a moment and then his eyes narrow. A slap of power throws Dean back into the door, breaking his concentration. The fire in his mind vanishes abruptly, shrinking back into that distant warmth. He’s still trying to catch his breath when Sam’s power thickens across his skin.

“Go ahead,” Sam dares. “Try again.”

Snarling internally, Dean reaches for the warmth and Sam cuffs him away from it with a sharp blow. His head aches—from Sam’s rebuke or from trying to use a power he was never meant to have, he doesn’t know—but he ignores the pain to push for it again. Sam’s smile is lazy as his power whips out a third time, and it only infuriates Dean more. He fights harder, straining toward the golden warmth until the room is spinning and he can barely see past the agony in his skull.

Then Sam’s hands cradle his head and something like a wall slides into place between him and his goal, leaving his thoughts blessedly cool and quiet. The pain begins to recede almost immediately, so he’s aware of his surrounds enough to hear it when Sam purrs, “You don’t really think I’d leave Azazel walking around with more power than me, do you?”

Something deep inside of Dean’s chest snaps. He slumps against the wall with a broken, grating sensation inside him and Sam’s power pressing in on his skin.

“Kill me,” he whispers. “Fuck, Sam, just— _please_.”

Sam drops his forehead against Dean’s. “No.”

Dean sucks in a breath—not sure whether he wants to scream or break down crying again—and then Sam’s mouth is there, stealing his air. Sam’s thumbs sweep over his cheekbones tenderly and Dean is so goddamned sick of fighting this. He’s tired of coming up with all the reasons why not when the world is screwed to hell. He’s already been sullied anyway, the demon’s power staining whatever tattered remnants are left of his soul, and he’s just … God, he’s _done_.

The power holding him in place has loosened and Dean tilts his face up, letting his mouth fall open. Moving his arms is like pushing through taffy—Sam hasn’t quite released him yet—but he manages to get his hands in his brother’s hair. He hates the way that this feels so right: the way that Sam’s tongue in his mouth is making him hard. Sam licks into him with deep, hungry strokes, erasing the last traces of decay that Lilith left behind and all Dean wants is more.

His mind strains at sanity’s leash, and he almost believes that this is Sammy, that this kiss has somehow resurrected him. It feels like Sammy’s mouth working on his, slow and thorough with an underlying gentleness that doesn’t lie. It feels like Sammy inside his chest, where the shattered, hurt place is scabbing over into a dull ache, like the memory of winter.

When Sam finally pulls away, Dean chases after his lips for a moment before his brother opens his eyes and he catches a hateful glint of yellow.

The world seems to shudder around him, and then reality stabilizes. He’s still in Hell, or as good as. Sammy is gone, the world is broken, and Dean is irrevocably tainted.

He doesn’t know what to call the emotion that rises in him as the delusion slips away. It’s too angry to be called panic: too frightened to be rage. He’s less upset about the return to what passes for rational thought these days than he is about the fact that he came so close to losing himself. He knows what surrender tastes like now: knows that it makes his limbs lax with the blissful flood of endorphins.

He can blame that kiss on his fracturing psyche all he wants, but the truth is that he was kissing Sam back before that tiny hiccup.

Unacceptable.

Sam’s hands drop down to Dean’s shirt. Start working the buttons. He doesn’t seem to have noticed yet that Dean has gone corpse still.

“Gonna lick you clean,” he promises. “Everywhere she touched you. Gonna strip you down and—”

Dean doesn’t let him finish. He doesn’t let himself think about what he’s doing either because he knows that he’ll chicken out if he pauses to assess the situation.

Clenching his hands into fists, he sends a tight uppercut into his brother's stomach. As Sam stumbles back a step, he follows with a right hook to his jaw. Then, tucking his shoulder down, he rushes forward. He body checks Sam as he passes—maybe knocks him down, he doesn’t pause to look. His eyes are on the door; his mind is already in the flame-shrouded elevator. If the pain kills him, then it will at least be an end to this.

Sam’s power wraps around Dean's legs before he’s gone more than a few steps, dropping him to the floor in a painful tumble. For the second time today the breath is knocked out of him, and this time his chest doesn't immediately unclench. Struggling for air, he pushes up to his hands and knees. He can't get it together enough to move any further, so he settles for pounding a fist against his chest in an attempt to jump-start his lungs.

Black spots are beginning to choke Dean's vision when a rough hand grabs his hair and jerks him to his feet. The violent motion provides the needed stimulus and his chest loosens. Dean gulps in a fresh breath as Sam twists his hand, yanking Dean's head back at an awkward angle.

"That was really fucking stupid," Sam hisses.

Still flooded with adrenaline, Dean jerks away. Left with the option of hanging on and ripping Dean's hair out or letting go, Sam releases him.

Dean staggers forward a step and then catches himself. He whirls, using the momentum to power the punch he's throwing, and then lets out a wordless cry of fury as Sam catches his hand. He swings with his left and Sam grabs that wrist as well. The press of his fingers heats the cold metal of the cuff.

Sam adjusts his hold and then yanks Dean forward, pulling him off balance and tumbling him against his brother's chest. “What the fuck is your problem?” he demands.

“You, Sam! You’re my fucking problem!” Dean struggles to pull loose, but Sam doesn't even need to use his power to restrain him: just tightens his grip. “Goddamn it, you don’t own me!”

 _Now_ Sam’s power lashes out, lifting Dean off his feet and tossing him across the room onto the bed. Dean flops over onto his stomach, tries to get a knee under him, and then Sam is on him, pressing his face into the mattress with one hand and gripping the collar of his shirt with the other.

For a few seconds, Dean loses his air again as Sam hauls up on the fabric and then it gives with a loud tearing sound. Sam releases Dean’s head, takes one side of the split in both hands, and then pulls. Cold air rushes in as the shirt rips the rest of the way, leaving Dean’s back exposed.

Dean's heart is tripping over itself trying to keep up with his fear. He told Sam that he’d rather Sam just take what he wants than keep trying to seduce him. Now that it has come down to it, though, he isn’t going down without a fight. His survival instinct isn’t quite broken enough for that.

Sam’s kneeling on him with one knee, but that isn’t enough to hold Dean down, not by a long shot. Scrambling at the mattress with both hands, he starts trying to squirm his way out from underneath his brother. Sam makes an annoyed noise and his hands drop down on the bared skin of Dean’s back. The tattoo flares and all of the muscles in Dean’s body suddenly go loose.

“Get off,” he manages to grunt.

Sam just presses harder, threading power through Dean’s skin and lighting him up with need. He can feel Sam’s heartbeat through his brother’s fingertips. Feels his own heart stutter a few beats to match that rhythm.

“You might have missed the newsflash, Dean, but I _bought_ you. Graveyard? Resurrection ritual? This ringing any bells?”

Too many. If Dean never has another nightmare about that night, it’ll be too soon.

He tries to tell his muscles that now is a really bad time to be lying down on the job. Pushes uselessly at the wall in his mind and feels a spike of frustration when his head is still the only thing he can move. He’s probably only being allowed that much freedom because Sam wants him to be able to hold up his end of the conversation.

“Doesn’t mean shit,” he spits.

“This says otherwise.” Sam’s fingers give another dig, lighting up the tattoo again. Then he trails his hands outward, lowering his chest down to lay against Dean’s back, and curls his fingers around the cuffs on Dean's wrists. “So do these.”

Dean realizes that Sam’s face is just over his shoulder and chances a head butt. Sam jerks back just in time to avoid the hit and power shoves Dean’s cheek back down against the mattress.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, Dean? Huh? It’s a little late in the game to be arguing about who owns what, especially since you already admitted that you’re mine.”

Dean isn’t sure exactly how to answer that, mostly because he doesn’t know the answer himself.

He has a feeling that it lies somewhere in the way that his brother jerked him off this morning. In the way that Sam didn’t take advantage the way he could have. In the way that Dean enjoyed it, and no matter how much he wants to, he can’t blame all of that on Lilith’s power.

It lies in that beaten, bleak surrender, which only lasted for a moment but which Dean would have sworn was impossible when he woke up today.

Most of all, though, he thinks it might lie in the way that his brother held him down on this bed less than an hour ago and defiled his soul in the worst way possible.

He didn't even hesitate.

“Talk to me, man,” Sam whispers, and nudges Dean’s shoulder with his nose. “I can’t help if I don’t know what the problem is.”

“You’re fucking with my head, Sam,” Dean says. Then, in a rush he adds, “You—all the time, with the goddamned touching and the—the pushing—and Jesus Christ, you fucking _raped_ me! How the hell am I supposed to be acting? _Happy?_ ”

Sam releases him and eases off of his body. Dean finds that he can move again, and he cautiously sits up. He half crawls, half scooches back to the headboard where he pulls his knees against his chest and stares at his brother. Sam stares back, hurt and shock in his face, and although Dean could probably make another break for the door now, he suddenly feels too weary to move.

“I didn’t,” Sam says finally. His voice is quietly horrified. “Dean, I would _never_. I stopped, I wouldn’t—”

“I’m not talking about that, I—” Dean runs a shaky hand through his hair and then haltingly says, “God, Sam, you put that stuff inside me and I—I didn’t—I don’t—I said _no_ , damn it.”

Sam’s face crumples. He looks alarmingly like he’s about to start crying. “I didn’t have a choice, man. There wasn’t—Azazel’s power needed to go somewhere, and it was either you or him, and I—I couldn’t let him hurt you again.”

It’s ridiculous. Dean is the one who’s been put through hell today—for however many days he’s been here, actually—and he has to dig his fingernails into his ankle to keep from reaching out to comfort Sam.

 _He’s not Sammy,_ he reminds himself. _He’s ripping you apart. Get with the fucking program already._

“It—It’ll be okay, you’ll see,” Sam continues. His yellow eyes are earnest. “It doesn’t change who you are.”

“Yeah, look who’s talking.”

Sam is silent for a moment, head drooping and one hand picking nervously at the bedspread. “That was different,” he says. “ _I’m_ different.” He licks his lips and cautiously inches forward. “But … you’re still _you_ , Dean.”

The laugh that rips out of Dean’s throat is hoarse. Sam scoots closer, turning his body so that he’s leaning against the headboard next to Dean.

“Dean?” he says hesitantly, reaching out to touch Dean’s cheek.

Jerking his head away, Dean bites out, “Don’t,” through his laughter.

For a wonder, Sam’s hand drops back into his lap. Concern creases his face, which only makes Dean laugh harder. He can’t seem to make himself stop. He felt almost normal for a while there, but this … oh man, this isn’t a great sign. He has to pull it together.

 _Why? Why the hell should I?_

For a long moment he can’t think of an answer to that question, and then, limping and bruised, it comes.

He needs to keep hold of himself for Sammy.

Dean has to believe that he’s getting his brother back some day, and he wants to be there when that happens. He _needs_ to be there so he can put Sammy back together.

Eventually, he manages to regain some semblance of control and sits quietly next to Sam, staring blankly out at the room. Lilith is a vague shape on the floor, curled in on herself and shuddering, and the smell of her—sweet, moist decay—is starting to permeate the air.

“You keep shoving at me,” Dean says. “Like a little kid trying to get the square peg in the round hole. And then sometimes you—you almost seem like him—but then you turn around and do something so goddamned _violating_ and I just. Fuck. I just don’t know what to believe anymore. I don’t know what the hell you want from me.”

Sam’s head drops on his shoulder and Dean doesn’t shove him away. It isn’t worth the effort.

“I just want my brother back,” Sam says in a soft, almost bewildered voice.

Dean barks out a single, bitter laugh. “Yeah, that’s how I feel.”

Sam’s head shifts on Dean’s shoulder. Tentatively, he finds Dean’s right hand with his own and interlaces their fingers together. “I’m right here.”

“No, you’re really not.”

Sam makes a hurt noise and presses his face into Dean’s neck. “Right here,” he says again.

Moving his mouth against Dean’s skin in sloppy, almost desperate kisses, he drags their interlocked hands between Dean’s legs to press against his crotch. The phantom memories of frantic gropes in the backseat of the Impala, of jerking each other off in gas station restrooms while Dad picked up supplies and gas, make Dean want to arch into the touch. The more recent, stronger memory of Sam’s hand making a circle for him to fuck while he was drugged out of his mind on Lilith’s power makes him want to scream.

“Come on, man,” he begs. “Not now, okay?”

Sam shifts his body closer and presses their hands more firmly against the rising swell of Dean’s cock. Dean closes his eyes, letting his brother’s nudges tilt his head forward and to the side. It’s an awkward position, but then Sam is nuzzling at the nape of Dean’s neck and the movement sends frissons of pleasure through him.

“I love you,” Sam chokes out. “I love you so much, Dean, I can’t—it’s like I can’t _think_ without you. I get so—so angry. And I understand this is hard for you, but it’s not exactly a piece of cake for me either, and if you’d just—just give me a chance, I could be—I don’t know, I could—I could make it better.”

“How are you gonna do that, Sam?” Dean asks, holding himself still. “You gonna bring all those people you murdered back to life? You gonna stuff the demons back in Hell?” The pressure on his crotch falters, easing a little, and he adds, “You gonna take this … _thing_ … out of me?”

Sam isn’t moving at all anymore, his breath ghosting over Dean’s shoulder blades. When he doesn’t answer, Dean snorts and pulls his hand free from his brother’s.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

Sam rests his hand on Dean’s upper thigh. “I could make you not care about that,” he suggests. “If it would be easier, I could just—”

There’s the brush of Sam’s power inside of his mind—not actually doing anything, just an offer—and Dean tenses. It’d be so easy to say yes. So simple to just give in. But he’s too fucking stupid and stubborn and masochistic for that.

“Don’t,” he rasps.

The suggestive touch of Sam’s power withdraws even as he snuggles closer.

“I miss you,” he whispers.

Dean waits for some kind of reaction to that declaration and nothing comes. Looks like he’s cleaned out again. He sighs heavily and then says, “I’m tired, Sam.”

“Yeah, okay.” Sam presses a quick kiss to the nape of Dean’s neck and then moves away. “Lilith.”

As Dean slowly shrugs out of his shirt and the uncomfortable press of his pants, he does his best not to listen to the one-sided conversation his brother is holding. It's one-sided because every time Lilith tries to speak, the only noise she can make is a wet gurgling sound.

Sam’s tone is soothing as he promises her that he’s doing her a favor, that she should thank him for the unforgettable reminder not to touch Dean again because next time he won’t be so lenient. A shudder ripples through Dean’s shoulders and he tunes the rest of that out. He really doesn’t want to know what Sam considers worse than an eternity stuck in a decaying body.

Tossing his jeans and the ruins of his shirt to the floor, Dean spends a few moments looking around for the sheet before he remembers that he took it with him when he went to get dressed. He doesn't want to go all the way over there and get it, though, so he crawls down to the foot of the bed and grabs the bedspread instead. It’s too warm in here for this, especially with the window gone and the fire burning outside, but the cover is comforting. Feels like a shield as he lies back down on his side and pulls the thick fabric over his body.

He tunes back into his brother’s voice just in time to hear Sam tell Lilith to get the fuck out. Good. Maybe by the time he wakes up again that scent will be gone from the suite and he can pretend none of this ever happened. He’ll need to come up with another explanation for the ruined state of the room, and for the impenetrable wall of Sam's power in his mind, but he can do that. He can do that fine.

Dean is just starting to drift away when the bed dips behind him. He comes awake all at once, eyes snapping open and body tensing. The covers pull back briefly and then there’s a body plastered against his back. Sam isn’t wearing a shirt, and Dean can feel his brother’s heartbeat pounding into his skin.

“Sam,” he starts, and then Sam drapes a leg over Dean’s and slides his hand across his stomach. And yeah, it isn’t just a shirt that Sam isn’t wearing. The only things keeping Dean from completely freaking out are the thin barrier of his underwear and the fact that his brother isn’t actually hard right now.

“Shh, baby,” Sam murmurs, rubbing Dean’s stomach lightly. “’M not gonna try anything. Just want to hold you. Please?”

 _Not here,_ Dean wants to say. _Not now._

This is his refuge. It’s the one place he can go to get away from Sam for a while. But Sam is warm behind him, the closeness of his body somehow reassuring.

He doesn’t understand how he can still feel this way. He should hate Sam for what he did today, and he does a little. But he also wants so badly to believe that Sam didn’t have a choice, that he corrupted Dean like that to keep him safe. It helps that he can’t feel the warmth of the demon’s power through the wall that Sam erected in his mind.

God, he can’t keep flip flopping like this. He can’t be terrified of his brother one moment and feel sorry for him the next. He can’t handle Sam’s violent mood swings. He _can’t._

The ache in Dean’s chest crystallizes for one, agonizing moment, and then fades. He stares at the melted wall and doesn’t say anything. Taking his silence for permission, Sam sinks closer and buries his face between Dean’s shoulder blades.

“Love you so much,” he moans, like it hurts. Like that love is a diseased parasite that he wishes he could reach in and tear out.

Dean doesn’t let himself think about it. Just reaches down to cover his brother’s hand on his stomach with his own.

“Dean?” Sam says after a moment.

“Hmm?”

“Can you—I don’t want to upset you, but can you—I need to hear it, please.”

It occurs to Dean that Sam has been asking him for something—for this—ever since he woke up, and he still has no idea what his brother wants. “Hear what?”

Sam is silent for a long moment and then, in a lost little voice, he whispers, “Do you still love me?”

 _Oh,_ Dean thinks. He presses his lips together.

“Do you?” Sam insists.

There’s a hard lump lodged in Dean’s throat and he has to swallow a few times before he can get the words out. “I don’t know.”

“I need you,” Sam says, holding him tighter. “Don’t leave me.”

Like Dean could. “Not going anywhere,” he mutters.

Sam lets out a tiny, contented sigh. His hand flexes on Dean’s stomach and then relaxes again. After a few minutes, his breathing evens out into the slow rhythm of sleep.

Dean stares straight ahead, listening to the fire outside and absently stroking Sam’s forearm. He pretends that he can’t still smell decay on the air: that the cuffs on his wrists aren’t pulsing heat in time with Sam’s heart.

He’s still awake four hours later when Sam wakes up again and leaves for the front lines.


End file.
